Maître
by Dove of Night
Summary: Teaching, marriage, anger, joy - a whirlwind of life beginning at the very first meeting of the two. Christine must learn to accept Erik, and he must learn to be a little less...him. It's all very stressful. E/C AU
1. Temper

_**My Dearest Reader:**_

_ **At first you may find the details in this story shocking, terrible. Erik does have a terrible temper at first, and you might be frightened for Christine. Nevertheless, worry not for her safety; he would never truly wish her harm her. After all - the Opera Ghost protects what is his. Now I must venture into the dark world of this story. Do you wish to come? You are most welcome to it.**_

_ **Your Humble Servant,**_

_ **Dove of Night**

* * *

__Christine _

I can't remember when I met him. I was almost sixteen, a social butterfly. If they had a mouth and could speak my language, I would strike up conversation. Sometimes I would even attempt the same with someone who _couldn't_ speak my language. I wasn't terribly difficult to please.

Given my popularity, I suppose it's no small wonder that I cannot recall when I met him. I should…those eyes of his, they're so intelligent and piercing that they burn straight to the soul. Nonetheless, I have no recollection of our first meeting.

However, he appears to have perfect clarity.

That first meeting was when the Phantom of the Opera fell in love with me.

* * *

_Erik_

Our first meeting wasn't a high point of Christine's life. She probably wouldn't remember it if she were asked. I remember every detail.

It was exceedingly warm in the ballroom, where the gala was taking place. I don't know why I insisted on venturing to the social events of the Opera house, but occasionally my own company became droll. I could drive myself mad with my incessant mental chatter. Anyway, back to the topic – it was hot. I was uncomfortable in my heavy black cloak and fine suit. I tended to use my most expensive one for frivolous events such as this.

I had been contemplating retiring for the night, tired of the automatic retreat that those around me went into. They didn't even have to think about it, or release who I was. Instinct told the prey when the predator was near.

She had appeared so suddenly, that it had been as though she were an angel who had slipped shyly from the heavens. Her hair had been up that night – I thought it would look better down, but couldn't be certain. It was a dark brown, slightly lighter than the innocent doe-eyes that stared from creamy skin. The girl looked as though she saw little sunshine.

Clothed in a pale blue dress, the colour wasn't terribly flattering on her but was rather nice all the same, the girl was speaking to and laughing with anyone who crossed her path. Her cheery friendliness drew me to her side before I could reconsider such an action. I usually refrained from speaking to any of the guests. I frightened them – even though they didn't know why – and I didn't want anyone to accidentally figure out that I was, in fact, the Opera Ghost. Collateral damage was never as amusing as a meant kill.

'_Good evening._' She spoke to me the instant she noticed me, no hesitation.

'_The same to you, miss._' I replied politely, '_Are you well?_'

She smiled at me hesitantly, as though running over a mental database to be sure she had not met me before. '_Yes, thank you._' She responded finally, '_I don't believe we've met. I-_'

'_My dear,_' Another man appeared behind her, his long hair looking mistreated and rather unbrushed. His nose dominanted his face, and he seemed rather uncertain of himself. The Vicomte de Chagney. I'd seen him before. The only feature he boasted that I considered worthy of attention was his eyes – they were a beautiful blue. Other than that, the man needed a new body. '_May I have this dance?_' He took the girl's elbow. She seemed uncomfortable for a bare instant, almost as though she either didn't enjoy his touch or didn't want to exaunt from her conversation with me. The Vicomte left her no room for argument, however.

'_I'm sorry._' She smiled at me apologetically, extremely mature for seeming to be such a young lady. And her voice…melodic, light. She had the sound of a first soprano. '_May I speak to you later, perhaps?_'

She wished to speak to me again? Very well. '_Soon._' I turned, striding away so I wouldn't have to watch the Angel dance with the insolent boy.

That first meeting was when the Phantom of the Opera fell in love with her.

* * *

**Maître**

_Chapter One _

Temper 

"Miss Christine Daaé?" The voice was rather toneless, obviously bored. Christine leapt to her feet, her energy having not died in the two years since the gala in which she had accidentally sealed her own fate.

"Present!" She scampered for the stage, not wishing to irritate the man who looked ready to fall asleep where he sat. The pianist yawned, not even looking at his hands or the music anymore. It had been a long day.

Christine wouldn't be surprised if the two were simply exhausted from trying to keep miss Carlotta happy during her 'audition', which, according to her, was a waste of time since she was obviously going to be the lead.

To be honest, that was rather depressing to think about, since what Carlotta wanted, Carlotta got.

"Ke-" Yaw, "Key?" The pianist inquired in a gruff bass. Christine quietly requested her favourite key – it was in a medium register, she wasn't confident enough to attempt a true soprano.

The song began. Christine started to freeze, but she forced herself through the terror, reaching for her father's spirit and imagining him standing there, smiling and nodding. The song was a strange one, full of odd and sudden shifts in the tune, ridiculous vibrato, and a strange rhythm.

Christine was careful to ignore her personal preference and just sang the song as well as she could. At the end she discovered that the other auditioners were staring at her, several slack-jawed, and dead silence rang much louder than any applause that had ever echoed around that theatre.

What, did she have the Phantom of the – Christine took a hasty glance over her shoulder – Opera standing beside her, or was she simply _that_ bad? She didn't think she was great, but she was only auditioning for a Chorus girl to begin with.

"Consider yourself a part of the chorus." The auditioner whispered, "And note that if you ever audition again, you will be doing so for the lead. Good day, miss."

Christine left the stage and the auditorium, half-way to the dormitories she realized what the man had been implying. "Strange. He must have been half-asleep." She smiled to herself and kept walking, until a leather-clad hand caught her wrist and spun her.

Anger.

It took Christine a grand total of two seconds to see the fury written across the face and eyes of the man who held her wrist captive. Gasping quietly she made to take a step back, swallowing hard. He didn't let her, and reclaimed what little distance she managed as his grip tightened.

"How dare you." He hissed, voice faintly familiar. Christine was too busy being terrified to worry about whether or not she'd met him before.

"P-pardon me, sir?" She whispered faintly, forcing the words through her frozen throat, "C-could you explain what you-?"

"I do not require you to speak, girl." He hissed. Christine wasn't sure whether to be angry or even more terrified. His mask. She recognized the mask. The melodic quality of his voice, a smooth and rich baritone, was familiar as well. "You have destroyed your own talent!"

"…What-"

"Silence!" He snapped, "You are a soprano. You are meant to sing songs that few humans could dare. You can hit notes that no other singer in this Opera house can. And you _dare_ to make a mockery of your talent by singing mid-range!"

"I-I'm sorry…" Christine stammered, her fingers beginning to tingle – his grip on her wrist was cutting off her circulation.

His features softened slightly, and seeming to notice her pain he loosened his grip on her wrist. "You can be great." He whispered, "Even the dolt running the auditions could see that. You are not meant to be merely a dancer and chorus girl. You are meant to be something above and beyond that. Far above and beyond. I can help you."

"You can?" Christine inquired. Her voice was still faint – she didn't want to risk angering him by speaking out of turn once more.

He seemed to have cooled down. "Yes. I can teach you. I can make you sing songs you only dreamed of. I can make you great. All you need to do is accept the offer."

Christine stared at him for several moments. Obviously he expected an immediate answer. "I have no money…" She replied.

His grip tightned once again and she took a sharp breath through her teeth. "I did not ask for your _money_." He snapped.

Christine bit back tears. He was scaring her, and hurting her. But she could sense his musical prowess, she didn't even need to hear him sing. "Then…if you truly want to…please do teach me."

This seemed to calm him, and he released her wrist completely. Christine drew it to her stomach instantly, her other hand coming to rub the feeling back into the flesh.

"Very well. I shall." He half-smirked. "And I'll see to your sleeping arrangements, as well."

"You'll what?" Christine blinked, but he'd already turned with a swirl of black fabric, seeming to vanish.

* * *

"Gather your things, Miss Daaé." Madame Giry ordered her gently, "You are to be moved to a private room."

"Whatever for?" Christine inquired, confused as she looked up from her journal entry.

The woman's smile seemed sad. "Your new teacher wishes it so." Christine's cheeks flared red and Madame Giry frowned. "Do not deny it." She snapped immediately, seeing Christine's will to do just that. "You will anger him. You accepted his offer of tutelage, now you must lay in the bed you have made."

"Why does he wish-"

"Christine Daaé, close your mouth and gather your belongings, _now_."

"Yes ma'am." Christine didn't argue with that tone of voice and in a few short minutes everything she owned was neatly packed in her single trunk.

Madame Giry frowned at the girl's wrist, seeing the garish bruising across the pale skin, but said nothing. She simply let the girl lift her trunk and led her to the new room.

* * *

The room was not large. It was comfortable, however. Warm – Christine liked that, she was always cold. Sparsely decorated with a simple bed, a closet, a vanity, and a dressing screen. The most shockingly fancy portion of the room was the large, gilded mirror that took up most of the wall to the left of her bed. The screen framed the corner directly opposite the mirror's wall, and the vanity was against the wall to the right of the bed.

"I'm sorry." Madame Giry whispered, closing the door behind Christine who swallowed hard in an attempt to calm her nerves. Why was the Madame apologizing? Perhaps there was more to this man than she'd thought.

Unpacking swiftly, Christine tried to make the room a bit more 'hers'. When everything was in place she blew out all of the candles but two, and settled down with a book.

This peace lasted for a grand total of five minutes.

One of her candles went out. Christine frowned, and started to rise so she could relight it. The other candle went out as well, plunging her into pitch blackness. Her heart leapt to her throat. Perhaps it was a draft. But from what?

"Stand." The voice was unexpected, and Christine's heart nearly stopped beating. She glanced around wildly, eyes wide. "Stand." The voice repeated firmly. Finally getting the idea, Christine hesitantly rose from where she'd been kneeling on the bed. "Have you found the room to your liking?" She nodded silently. "Excellent."

An ice-cold hand, gloved just as it had been the first time, took her wrist. A gentle grip. But even that was enough to make Christine draw a breath of pain. The grip was released instantly, and her hand was taken, lifted to the level of a face that was most assuredly taller than she. Cold breath danced across her palm as her invisible benefactor seemed to be examining her wrist. In the darkness? Apparently.

"Who did this?" The tone suggested that no answer was truly needed.

"You." Christine breathed, hoping that the blunt answer would not anger him any more than her choice of key for her song had.

It seemed to do the opposite. He let her hand fall, and she felt a rustle of air that indicated he had turned away. After a few moments, a flicker of light danced across Christine's vision. Light was her sanctuary and she relaxed immediately, barely stopping her instant urge to sit when her knees weakened.

"Come here." His back was to her, a solid wall of black. He probably wouldn't be able to tell if she were to ignore his order, or only take a few steps. The thought to do so, however, never crossed Christine's mind. She didn't even contemplate the fact that she could very easily run from the room. She just obeyed, going to his side with a few light steps.

A water basin was before him, settled upon the vanity. The water was obviously unheated and Christine fought the urge to pull back when he took her hand once more, dipping the washcloth in the chilly water and wrapping it around her wrist. "I apologize, my dear." The man murmured.

"Who are you?" Christine inquired faintly. She had no name for this man, who had already touched her more than any other.

"My name is of no consequence to you." He replied tonelessly, still gently sponging the tender bruises. The cold water, while uncomfortable, was doing wonders for the dull throbbing that had remained in her wrist.

"But…then, what should I call you?" Christine replied rationally.

"You may call me Master." He replied confidently, "Master of Music." Christine felt herself blushing and tried very hard to put that to an end swiftly. She'd overheard stories, from some of the older and more experienced Opera dancers and singers. The term which he took as his own, a perfectly reasonable thing since he was to be her teacher, seemed almost inappropriate. Especially from a handsome man at least twice her age. _Why does he wear that mask?_ Christine hadn't thought about it, until that moment, when she'd realized she thought him handsome. Perhaps he did it for the mystique it gave him.

"Oh." She replied finally, realizing she needed to reply to his expectant glance.

"What is the matter?" He inquired, his visible eyebrow quirking as he released her and replaced the cloth in the water.

"N-nothing." Christine replied instantly, knowing that she looked ridiculous, stammering and blushing.

"What have you heard?" He queried, choosing at random the correct reason for her discomfiture.

"I've heard…n-nothing, M-M…" Christine tried to force the word, but it escaped her verbal power, "Monsieur."

"Very well." His tone was dark. _Christine_ knew that _he_ knew that _she_ was lying. "Perhaps you aren't so innocent as you seem, my dear?"

Air found anywhere but her lungs to reside. Choking momentarily she retreated back to her bed, turning away from him, "W-what?" She stammered weakly. "I do not understand your comment, Monsieur."

"I did not say you could call me 'Monsieur', girl." He chided, almost seeming amused suddenly.

"Christine." She said abruptly, before she could think it over.

"Pardon?" He inquired, confusion flitting over his features momentarily.

"My name is Christine Daaé." She clarified, her courage failing her so badly toward the end that her name was but a whisper.

"Christine Daaé." He repeated. "Very well. I shall call you Christine, if that's what you wish." His voice was suddenly very melodius, he made his statement sound as though it were the beginning of a song.

Christine half-turned to glance at him, and was startled to find him gone. She turned all of the way around to search for him, and upon finding no one she sat upon her bed, yawning quietly. Rehearsals would begin early in the morning, as usual. His voice echoed suddenly, "You will be here at nine o'clock in the evening." It was not a request. Christine looked around once more. Finally, she lay back and went to sleep, snuggling under the new blankets of the foreign bed in the strange room.

* * *

"Miss Daaé, what is your rush?" Madame Giry snapped irritably, "It is only a few minutes before nine, you know full well how long rehearsals tend to last."

"Please, Madame," Christine requested quietly, "I…feel unwell. Please, may I return to my room?"

The Madame frowned, as though the realization for the reason for the sudden urgency that Christine obviously felt had hit her. "_He_ wishes you back?" She inquired.

Christine felt her cheeks beginning to flame. Madame made it sound so … wrong. "Y-yes, Madame." She whispered, voice cracking.

"What time did he want you?" The woman inquired, her severe tone gentled as she observed Christine's shy reaction.

"Nine o'clock, ma'am." Horror filled the girl's face when the clock struck. "Madame Giry, please!" She cried.

"Go, child." Giry nodded, "Be swift." Christine nodded, relieved, and took off at a dead sprint. Six chimes. Her room was so very far away… seven chimes…eight…Christine had to stop, gasping for air, her throat ravaged by her need for oxygen. There was no way to make it. Nine chimes. The clock went dead silent, and Christine's heart nearly stopped.

Perhaps he wasn't there yet. Perhaps she could be a minute late and not anger him. Perhaps he'd be late as well. Too many variables. Christine knew her luck was not that good.

She ran again, trying to reach her room less than a minute after the clock's completion. The door loomed before her and she paused to recollect herself, still gasping for air, brushing some stray strands of hair that had fallen from her bun out of her face, trembling. He would be angry. She knew it already. Christine could wait no longer and she opened the door, stepping very slowly into the room that was ominously black. Had she forgotten to leave a candle? Unlikely. She wished she had a window.

"Are you above instruction, _Christine_?" Came the calm voice that she'd been awaiting.

Christine froze, still only a few steps into the room, the door still open behind her. "N-no." She replied faintly, "I…I…rehearsals. They were longer than I had realized. I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't." She was still gasping for air, like a beached dolphin.

"Oh?" He materialized from the shadows before her, advancing very slowly. Christine watched him as she might a tiger. She felt very much like the prey before his predatory gaze. "Is it truly that hard to leave a rehearsal when you're but a _Chorus girl_, my dear?" He spat the words, "After all, you went out of your way to remain as small and unimportant as possible."

Christine felt her face begin to colour once more. Good sense hit her and she started to take a step back – too late. He was too close, grasping her about the waist and slamming the door shut firmly. Christine took a strangled breath when she was once more trapped in the darkness with her aggressor.

"Do you fear the dark?" He let her go, and Christine felt her hands trembling as she tried to pinpoint his location.

"Is not all prey frightened when they cannot see their predator?" She inquired faintly, the words escaping her mouth like water, not allowing her time to think about them. Did she truly consider them in the roles of predator and prey?…Yes…yes, she did. He was too frightening to her for her not to.

"You always know just what to say." His icy gloved hand slipped around her throat and Christine stiffened, awaiting … well, she didn't know what she awaited but it certaintly wouldn't be pleasant.

He didn't do what she expected. He drew her back, against him, grip gentle as he placed his other hand on her stomach. "Breathe in." He ordered.

Christine blinked, still straining in the encompassing darkness, but did as he asked without question.

"You know how to breathe, girl." His voice was all business, "And that is not it. Do it right this time!" Realizing what he was doing, Christine drew a full breath into her stomach – the proper breath for one singing. Drawing into the chest, as she'd just done, was for normal breathing. One did not sing from the chest unless they wanted a weak and weedy noise. "Very good." He released her and Christine felt herself relax.

However, she was back to her original problem. She couldn't see him, and he could see her.

"Why are you so frightened of me, Christine?"

"You are cruel." She replied without hesitation. She nearly heard his frown.

"You are unwise." He replied softly. "And we are through for this evening. You will be here tommorrow night at nine o'clock as you were not this night. Do not be late, or there will be consequences." Silence.

Christine went slowly to a candle and lit it, staring around. Once more he'd gone as though he'd never been. Obviously he was angry with her. She didn't like to upset or disappoint him. She'd be there at nine. She hoped.

* * *

It was ten o'clock. Christine had not felt this terrified since her first meeting with the man. She had been planning to be there at nine. She'd been ready to escape rehearsal, ready to kill if need be.

Until she ran into Raoul. Then all thoughts of the nine o'clock meeting had gone out of her head. They'd been together, catching up, when the clock tolled its ten times, and Christine realized that she had just committed her grevious mistake for the second time.

Tears danced just behind her eyes as she walked slowly to her room. She was late to begin with, a few moments of self-collection and the enjoyment of being without pain would not make him any angrier. She knew already that he was going to hurt her.

She deserved it, for ignoring his command twice in a row. She should have known better. There was no one to blame but herself – even Raoul, who had refused at first to let her leave despite her panic, could not be blamed.

The door was ominous. Christine took another breath and then opened it, trembling violently. The first thing she noticed was the light. For the first time, there were two candles already lit in her room. The second was the man seated in the chair that had been at her vanity but now sat beside the mirror. He was leaning back, relaxed, head down as though he were asleep.

Christine knew, however, by the stillness of his entire form and the rigidity of his shoulders that he was anything but asleep.

"Two times." He whispered. "Was I too kind to you, Christine? Should I have punished you the first time, instead of accepting that a minute late was not a travesty?"

"I'm sorry," Christine began, her voice cracking with emotion. Terror and guilt.

"I offered to make you great, Christine, and you accepted that offer. I cannot uphold my end of the bargain until you learn some _respect_!" His head snapped up, eyes like fire. "I must teach you to obey me."

"Master," Christine knew instinctively that any other term would do nothing to salve his fury. "Please, forgive me – it will not happen again, I swear!"

"Close the door, Christine." He hissed. She did so hastily, not turning away from him, eyes wide and trained solely on his form. "Come here." She hesitated. "You would disobey me in this, as well?" She stumbled in her haste to do as he ordered, coming to stand just out of his arm's length in front of him. "Why do you make things so difficult?" He breathed, seeming to have calmed his temper.

"I…was speaking to a childhood friend. We didn't realize the time had flown. I promise, I really do, I will never do it again. Please…don't hurt me?" Christine knew that pleading like this was weak, and she didn't like it, but she liked being hurt even less.

"Childhood friend? Name?" He seemed to know already.

"Raoul de Chagney…" It was barely a whisper. Christine had enough time to see the possessive rage cross his face before he was on his feet and advancing. Her retreat did nothing, he was eerily fast and had her in an instant, cold hands pressing her shoulders roughly into the wall.

"You would ignore my lesson to make love to that insolent boy? That _slave_ of _fashion_?" He snarled into her face.

Christine cringed back, pressing into the wall. "I…I did not make love to him!" She managed, "We spoke only! We didn't even-"

"Silence yourself, harlot." She felt a blush beginning to creep up her throat, colouring her cheeks until it felt they were on fire. "I should kill him now, just for _looking_ at you!" Christine stared at him, "Just for _thinking about_ what is _mine_!"

"Yours?" She inquired, knowing that now was not a time to argue, not a time to test his temper. But she couldn't resist. "What do you mean 'yours'?"

"Do you honestly believe that you don't already belong to me, Christine?"

"I know that you are doing nothing but hurting me." She shot back.

"And I'll hurt you again." His grip tightened, "And eventually I will make you see that I am to be obeyed, _you belong to me_!"

"Let me go," She whispered, "You're hurting me."

"I'm not surprised." He towered over her, a vision of an angel of death, a harbinger of pain. Christine bit her lower lip, tears filling her eyes as his grip shifted from her arms to her throat. Both hands pressed into her windpipe unremorsefully.

"Why…" She gasped, "Are…you…doing…this?" The words were forced, it took most of her oxygen to form them.

"I love you. I must be cruel to teach you, as you will not listen to kindness. If you were not afraid of my reaction, would you have come at all this night?" Christine didn't know the answer to that. She wasn't in that situation. He released her throat suddenly. "Did you enjoy it when he touched you, Christine?" He whispered, pressing closer.

Christine tried to dive past him, to escape, but he caught her easily, a hand at either side of her waist. "He didn't touch me, Master! I swear it!"

He seemed beyond listening to her words, "Did you enjoy his kisses?"

"He did not kiss me!" Christine cried faintly, giving up. He was not listening. Beyond being imposing, he was not doing anything to her. Let him rant.

His mouth came upon hers with a sudden, crushing force. Christine, startled, found herself immediately lacking oxygen. She'd never been kissed, her words to her Master were honest. She knew better than to lie to him when he was raging, it was simply _asking_ for trouble. Which she did enough of already.

One of his hands drifted up to the side of her face, cupping her cheek possessively as he continued to kiss her. Christine did not respond to him, but she did not fight him, either. When he was satisfied, he released her and backed away. "You did not lie." He murmured. She stared at him silently, something akin to a '_no kidding_' in her gaze.

The fire was fading from his eyes. He backed up another step, eying Christine silently. She watched him, beginning to feel fire in her throat. His eyes went from hers to her throat and he frowned, reaching out to her. Christine fought the urge to flinch away. His cold hands, still gloved, brushed across her throat. They soothed the burning for a moment.

"Be here at nine." Were his parting words as he spun, his cloak swirling out. The candle flames puffed into nonexistance, and when Christine returned them, he was gone.

* * *

"Interesting night?" Meg Giry whispered suggestively into Christine's ear. She groaned, opening her eyes.

"Why do you ask?" Her head hurt.

"Look at yourself." Christine blinked and rose slowly, feeling unsteady, and went to the mirror. Her throat was a colourful area. Ten, thick, finger-shaped bruises ran across it with varying colours.

"Why are you in here, Meg?" Christine inquired faintly as she went back to sit on her bed, shuddering.

"Raoul asked me to deliver this." Meg smiled, "And rehearsals are cancelled for today due to some repairs to the stage. Shall we go out for a while?"

"As long as we're back by nine." Christine replied firmly.

Meg tilted her head and nodded, handing Christine the letter. "I will return in five minutes."

Christine smiled at her and rose, gathering a high-necked white gown and replacing her sleeping shift with it. The neck clasped all of the way up under her chin, and hid the bruises beautifully. The sleeves were long, which covered the bruises on her arms and wrist as well.

Christine was glad the worst she had to boast from her encounters with her angry Master were some bruises.

That done, she returned to her bed, where she'd dropped the letter, and lifted it. With a deft motion, she opened it to read the fancy writing within.

_My darling Christine:_

_I'm very upset about my abrupt dismissal last night, and hope it wasn't because of any insensitive comment I might have made at some point in our conversation. I miss my little Lotte, and do hope we can speak again sometime soon. I shall see you at church on Sunday, and I am taking you out for a special brunch afterward. A good day to you, my dear._

_Best and most sincere regards,_

_Vicomte Raoul de Chagney_

"Great." Christine sighed. She folded the letter and put it back into its envelope before slipping it under her pillow – the one place her Master might not look. The last thing she needed was him to see that, but she didn't want to throw it out. Foolish? Most likely.

Meg tapped at her door.

* * *

Eight-thirty was the time when Christine entered her room. Finally she had managed to be on time – even a little early. Perhaps he would spend less time trying to strangle her and more time trying to help her learn to sing. That would definitely be a change.

"Ah, so I see the third time is the charm." He mentioned almost amiably from his chair. Christine managed to smile at him and nod.

"Yes. I did promise, did I not?"

"That you did." He rose. "Well, since you're early it looks like we're going to accomplish something tonight." His eyes flickered across her gown. "Why so modest tonight?" He seemed to want to make a comment about Raoul, but didn't want to bring up the bad emotions once more when Christine had obviously made an effort to keep the peace.

"I'm trying to…" _Hide your bruises_… "…show the other girls that modesty is allowable, even in an Opera house." Sure, it was plausible.

"I see." He frowned at her, but didn't press the issue. "Come." He held out his hand. Christine reached out hesitantly, and just as she placed her hand in his, the candles extinguished. She tensed, the dark was not her friend. "You are safe." He murmured, "So long as you are with me. Nothing will harm you. I can be your protector, as well as your aggressor." That was a totally confusing statement, but Christine still took comfort in what he was attempting to say and let her hand relax its grip on his.

She didn't know how it happened, but suddenly they were walking down a tunnel, dimly lit with candles, but a tunnel just the same. She didn't recall a tunnel last time she looked around her room.

They walked silently at first, until he suddenly began to sing. His tone was so rich…so accidentally seductive…Christine felt her heart just about stop, and her stomach flutter. "_Step lightly, gently, watch the world around you. Quiet, listen, music will surround you…obey my every command, stop tugging at your hand, and you'll see that I am right…when it comes, to the music of this night._"

His voice faded away, and Christine realized that she was staring at him as though in a trance. His voice was just so beautiful that she couldn't resist, however. They were at a gondola before she'd realized it and he helped her in, rowing silently. As they neared thier destination, Christine's soul screamed at her to sing so loudly that she finally gave in to the urge.

"_Lead me, guide me, promise you'll protect me…"_ He glanced down at her and she raised her voice a few octaves,_ "Let me trust you, hear you, slowly I will see…that everything you say is right, when it comes to the music of this night…_" His smile was gentle. The first smile she'd seen from him, and the first sign of gentleness.

They reached the end of the trek and he assisted her from the gondola.

"_I have brought you,_" He explained lyrically, "_To the seat of sweet music. To the place, where all must pay homage to music._ You have come here, _for one purpose, and_ one _alone. Since the moment I first heard you singing I've needed you here with me, to serve me, to sing for my music…_"

"When did you hear me singing?" Christine asked shyly, when his song had ended.

"When you were sixteen, at a masquerade. You were speaking to someone, and playfully sang a few lines before continuing on your way. The momentI heard the beauty your voice possessed, the instant tone, the control that could be gained with little instruction…I had to have you. I have not taught for such a long time…no one will listen…" He whispered.

Christine finally began to relax. He was not going to hurt her this night. He wanted her to understand why he needed her to become serious about her music. Christine looked around, curious. His gloved hand on her chin brought her gaze abruptly back to him. "Will you listen to me now, Christine? Will you obey me?"

She was mesmerized by his eyes. They were beautiful. Everything about this man was perfect, beautiful. So why did he hide behind that mask? "Yes." She breathed, "I will." She felt her hand lift to his face, fingers lightly skimming his porcelain cheek.

He caught her wrist gently, returning her hand to her side. "Don't open the box, Pandora." He murmured, and turned away. "We shall start with some scales so I can get a true view of your current range."

He spoke those words with a sudden urgency, and Christine saw how desperately he longed to teach her and sing with her. His next words turned her blood to ice. "And then we'll discuss your letter from the Vicomte de Chagney."


	2. Pandoras Box

**My Dearest Reader:**

**I appreciate your willingness to stay by my side throughout this travel. With no further ado, I bring you to the second chapter of the tale. Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night**

* * *

**Maître**

_Chapter Two_

Pandora's Box

* * *

"Have a seat, my dear." Christine had exhausted herself singing everything he threw at her. She wanted him to forget about the letter from Raoul. Or perhaps at least be calm about it. He had seemed so possessive since the moment she'd met him.

Christine sat, as he'd half ordered and half asked.

"The letter from your darling was very pretty." He murmured, still at his piano, back to her.

Christine stared at him from the stool she'd perched upon. "I did not know he would write me." She whispered.

"He is obviously enamoured of you, my child."

"I didn't encourage him!" Christine pleaded, hoping fervently that he would remain as calm and patient as he had been while they'd been singing. Each time she hit a discordant note, he would gently guide her to the proper sound.

"Should I believe you?" He half-turned, obviously _not_ reading the music before him or contemplating playing any of the beautiful ivory and onyx keys of the piano.

"Please," She murmured. "Please do."

"Have you dared lie to me yet, Christine?"

She shook her head fervently. "I wouldn't dare."

He eyed her for a long moment, before half-smirking and turning away. "All right. You may go to your brunch with the ignorant fool and break off your ties with him. I will be waiting for your return. If you are not back in a timely manner, I will be forced to come find you."

"What…time is … timely?" Christine inquired faintly.

"I will expect you back…at four. That gives you plenty of time after your _church_, right?" Christine didn't like the way he said 'church', but she didn't dare call his temper when he'd obviously made an effort to be reasonable. She nodded silently. "Very good."

Christine felt herself shivering again. She'd noticed since first entering her Master's …home?... that it was cold, bitingly so, down there. Perhaps that was why he was always so cold to the touch. If he were to remain aboveground for any long amount of time, he'd probably have some body warmth.

"You are not meant for this cold." His voice came from behind her and Christine just about leapt out of her skin. "So I will give you a choice. Would you like to sleep here for the night, and perhaps get in one more lesson before you leave for church, or would you like me to take you back to your room?"

It didn't take a scientist to know that the second choice was not one he was going to be pleased with. Christine paused to think about it. Would she put aside her terror of him to make him happy, or would she flee back to the safety of her room?

What would he do to her, if she stayed? Since they'd entered his home he had been nothing but polite and gentle, obviously trying to keep her from being afraid. Maybe if she tried to show trust, he would return the favour and stop being angry over every little thing.

"I'll stay, if that's what you wish." Christine offered faintly. His cloak appeared over her shoulders quite suddenly, capturing her body heat with remarkable speed.

"How very benevolent of you." His voice was mocking. Christine dropped her eyes. His hand brushed across her shoulder as he walked by, taking the sting out of his words. "Are you hungry?" She hesitated, thinking about that. Was she hungry? It hadn't occurred to her, but she had been in such a hurry to get to her Master as swiftly as possible that she'd skipped dinner, and it was now nearing midnight.

"Yes." She whispered faintly, "I am."

"What do you like?" He inquired lightly, "I don't have anything terribly gourmet, but you might find some peasant-food you like."

"I…you choose." Christine smiled encouragingly.

"Very well." He seemed to want to smile, but turned away too swiftly for Christine to be sure as to whether or not he actually carried the action out. "Wait here. Don't wander from this place; I have many traps set up around here to keep unwanted guests out and I may not be able to get to you in time to save you should you fall into one." Christine nodded obediently and watched him leave.

Rising slowly, she went to the piano, fingers tracing the keys delicately. She didn't want to accidentally press down and call him out to her, who knew how possessive he was of his piano. He seemed possessive enough of her, why not of a piano?

Bored of that, Christine's attention drifted to the music scattered about. If he wasn't careful, a candle would fall and burn the music – which he had obviously personally written. After a long hesitation, thinking about whether or not he'd be angry, Christine began to collect the music, making sure not to mix any of them up, tapping them together.

That complete, she ordered the candles, dusted where she could with her hands, picked up what had been thrown on the floor – this was obviously a bachelor's home. She folded what clothes were around, and essentially organized the entire main room. Anything with a curtain between her and it remained untouched – she did not want to stumble upon something she didn't want to see and anger him. She was still walking on eggshells and she knew it.

Pulling the cloak tighter around her body, Christine took a seat at the piano, settling neatly atop the bench and waiting. Her teacher arrived a few minutes later, and nearly dropped the platter he was carrying. He looked around, visible eye wide. His gaze settled on her. "Did you do this?" He inquired.

Christine couldn't read his tone. "Yes." She replied, "I'm sorry, I just…I was afraid your music would be burned if a candle fell, so I moved it away and it was so messy that I organized it and-"

"Christine, silence." He murmured. His tone was gentle, not angry. "Thank you." He said simply, setting the food down. "Here, I hope you like it." He lifted the cover, revealing a simple meal; bread, cheese, and pasta.

Christine eyed it for a moment, before deciding that it didn't look terrible. She smiled. "I'm sure I will." He'd set the food on the floor, and Christine took a seat beside it, curling her legs underneath her. Slowly she began to eat. A few bites in, she tilted her head. "Why aren't you eating?"

He glanced at her, pausing in his thumbing through the music – obviously hoping they were all in order. "It's for you."

"I cannot eat this much. Please come eat with me?" She half wanted him to eat, and half was curious as to whether or not he was a man or something else. His voice was that of an angel.

"Very well." He walked over slowly, as though uncertain as to whether or not she'd suddenly run, and took a seat across from her, lifting a chunk of bread and beginning to eat – rather neatly for a man who kept his room in such disarray.

Christine noted that he was very thin without his heavy cloak – which was somehow still miraculously about her shoulders.

They ate in silence, finishing their portions of the meal at almost the same time. He was through moments sooner, and rose, drifting back to his music.

"Would you like to sing with me, before I put you to bed?" He inquired – tone still gentle.

Christine tilted her head. Put her to bed? Was she a little girl? Despite his words, the offer of singing with him was too good to ignore. His voice…she wanted to hear his voice. "Okay." She murmured with a smile that she knew was shy – she was uncertain about daring to attempt matching her voice with his.

"Come here." He held out his hand and Christine reached out immediately, taking it and letting him draw her to his side. It wasn't as shockingly cold as it had been the first few times they'd touched – she must not have been as warm as she'd thought. "Can I trust you to keep to your true soprano throughout a song?" Christine nodded. Her voice was so warmed up from their exercises that she could have sung at almost any octave he asked of her.

He led her to sit beside him at the piano, and he settled the music upon the stand. "All right, your words are on the top. Are you ready?"

Christine nodded, and his fingers began to dance across the piano, stroking the keys gently, the touch of a truly skilled player. She waited for her mark and took a deep breath into her stomach, the words dancing from her lips almost as smoothly as the notes went from his piano. He came in with perfect timing, and they sang.

"_I am here now/I hardly know the reason why/I long to be led by you/Shown the way that's true/Without your guidance I would surely die./Teach me/Help me/Love me._"

"**You are here now/You hardly know the reason why/Longing to be lead by me/Shown the true way./I can teach you, help you, love you…/You must wonder, secretly in your pure heart, why I must hide from you/Why can't you trust me?"**

"_I don't mean to wonder/I can't help but try/I hate the way you must hide/I try to trust you, I do/But trust me, why don't you?_"

What she had just sung were not the words that had been written, and his head snapped up, a discordant note hitting Christine as though it were a physical slap. His eyes lit with fire – obviously his songs were not to be altered. He moved as though he were a demon, had her in a moment.

"You were sublime," He whispered, "Until you decided to touch upon what is not to be touched upon."

"I'm sorry." Christine replied, defiance forcing her to keep her jaw firm. "But why do you hide from me? Why do you keep half of your face under a mask? Can't you trust me?"

"If you knew why I wear this mask," His grasp of her arms had loosened, and his arms drifted around her in a loose hug. "You would never be able to look at me the same."

"How do I look at you now?"

That gave him pause. He glanced down at her, the fire having escaped his eyes. "You do not look at me with disgust." He began to turn away. Unable to resist her urge, knowing she shouldn't but unable to stand it, Christine's hand lashed out and whipped around his face, slipping his mask off before he could respond.

He spun her in his grasp, pressing her against his chest harshly, one hand around her throat and the other reaching for the mask that she refused to put within his reach.

"Give me that, Christine." He snarled, cold fury echoing from him.

"No." She replied stubbornly, refusing to be intimidated. Not this time. "Let me see your face."

"No!" He snarled, his grip on her throat tightening.

"_Let me see your face_." She responded just as stubbornly.

"Christine, I do not want to hurt you. This is your last chance. Give me my mask, and all will be forgiven. Please do not continue being a Pandora. Be smart, girl."

She knew that it was time to give in; the tone he'd taken had become too dangerous for her to ignore. He was giving her a chance to avoid his wrath. Despite her curiosity, she bowed her head and raised her hand, offering the mask. He took it from her roughly, and didn't release his grip on her throat until he'd replaced it fully.

Christine made no attempt to move away when he released her. When he moved back, she pressed further against him. "Why do you hate me?" She asked faintly.

"Hate you?" His hands encircled her waist suddenly, "I do not hate you. I never could. Do not speak such foolish words."

"You're so cruel…"

"To teach you," He whispered, "I do not wish to be, but you refuse to learn."

"I learn what you teach me…must you be so rough in doing so?"

His hands drifted to her shoulders. "I do not try to be." He turned her, pulling her against him in a more firm grasp, "But you are so stubborn."

Christine pressed her cheek against his chest, enjoying the moments of peace immensely, unable to resist the urge to relax. He was not angry, and would not hurt her. She could trust him for the moment.

"You are so easy to calm." He breathed, "Perhaps I have been too rough with you." His hug relaxed and he stepped away, taking her hand and leading her through a curtain to their right, leading her to the bed. Christine removed his cloak, handing it to him, and letting him tuck her into the bed.

It was warm, but not comfortably so. Seeing her attempting to be polite about the cold, he spread his cloak over her. "If you cannot stand the cold, call me." He leaned over her, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Sleep well." Christine smiled up at him and nodded, unable to keep her eyes open any longer.

* * *

Church was short that day. She wanted to put off her final farewell to Raoul for as long as possible, but the priest refused to extend his homily beyond his normal time, refused to take longer than usual consecrating the host, and there were less people than usual for communion. All-in-all, it was rather unfair.

The last to exit the chapel, Christine was not surprised to find Raoul there waiting for her.

"Vicomte." She murmured formally. He smiled at her and grabbed her arm, leading her to his carriage and from there to the café where they sat to brunch.

"You left very abruptly." Raoul offered, trying to draw her into conversation and memoirs.

"Yes, I did. And I must do so again."

"Why?" He inquired, up in arms instantly.

"I must break my ties with you."

"Why is that?"

"My Master commands it so. I do not wish to anger him again."

"Your _Master_?" He asked incredulously, "Since when has _Christine Daeé _called anyone 'master'?"

"I am not the same Little Lotte that you knew before. Please don't make this any harder than it is already. I am very fond of you, Raoul, but I must not be seen with you again."

"Oh, your kind Master let you speak to me just this once?"

Christine dropped her eyes, she hated people being angry with her. "Yes." She murmured.

"Oh, I see. I used to respect you, Christine, you were such an indomitable girl. You took orders from no one!"

"Well, things have changed. _I_ have changed. My world has become one of darkness, filled with pain and angels. I won't waver for you, and you may say whatever you like."

"Then perhaps this will change nothing." Raoul got up, he was slower and less graceful than the masked man, but held his own power, and grabbed Christine's arms, pulling her to him and kissing her. She felt none of the fire that she'd felt in her first kiss…and she knew that he had just condemned her to another night trying to salve the anger of the Master.

"It changes nothing." She pushed at him, waiting for him to release her. Being the Vicomte de Chagney he'd placed them in a private room, and therefore no one else was around to witness the carnality of the man as he grasped her wrists, pushing her until she hit the wall.

"What if I don't want to let you go, Christine?" Raoul snarled. She managed a strangled gasp. Raoul had always been her gentle companion; even in childhood he'd never done anything to hurt her.

Raoul, too, was different. He was no child, not anymore.

"Please," She murmured, "Let me go."

"I won't. I want you. I've wanted you for some time now."

Christine cringed away from him when he tried to kiss her. A faint echoing chime came from the downstairs clock. A second…a third…a fourth. Where had the time gone? The trip must have taken longer than she'd realized. It seemed as though it were only mere minutes since they'd left the church.

If it was four, that meant she was late. If she was late, then perhaps he would come after her. That would not end well for Raoul. "I'm late, Raoul. If he finds us here like this…he'll kill you. Please let me go. Take me home. I'll accept his punishment for being late…but if he finds us…he'll kill you." She was repeating herself, she noticed.

"I don't fear this 'master' of yours." Raoul mocked, "If he's at your home, how can he find us here? Besides, I don't want to." He caught her in another kiss.

Christine was confused, she was not prepared for such callous disregard from someone she trusted so much.

He was hurting her – she'd failed to realize that before, but as she stood trapped to the wall with her wrists in his fierce grasp, it occurred to her that she was in pain.

"Let go!" She cried when he finally ended the kiss.

"Is that all you have to say to me? You used to love me, why do you try to take that back now?"

"I used to love you. Now I'm fond of you. But I don't love you anymore. And you're hurting me, and frightening me."

"You still try to be so innocent, Christine?" He murmured mockingly, ignoring everything else she'd said. "You honestly expect me to believe that you are a virgin when you're calling a man 'Master'?"

"He is my teacher of music!" Christine gasped, horrified.

"Oh?" He snickered, pressing his body closer to Christine's. She felt a whimper of fear in the back of her throat and struggled to keep it from escaping.

"Raoul, please release me!"

"Or what?" He snickered.

"Or I will slit your throat so fast you'll be dead before you have the chance to let go." Murmured a voice that Christine knew all too well. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks and with wide eyes she looked beyond Raoul to stare at her Master. His mask glinted almost as maliciously as his eyes in the light of the room.

"Oh, I suppose you're the lover?" Raoul chuckled.

'_Must every man I speak to suddenly be my "lover"?' _Christine wondered with mild irritation. She hated that they would dare to think her so easy.

"I suppose you should not be asking silly questions." He replied sharply, "As you know as well as I how innocent the girl is. She has bedded no man, and she will most certainly not be bedding _you_."

"And am I to fear you?" Raoul responded mockingly. His grip on Christine's wrists loosened. The masked man saw that just as clearly as she, and Christine realized that unless she did something he would think she was willing to stay with Raoul. Which would bring about a whole new round of malevolence.

She jerked her hands free and pushed against Raoul's chest fiercely, using the wall to give her shove extra force. The Vicomte gave a startled cry, stumbling backwards and into the waiting Punjab of one very unhappy man.

"Master!" Christine cried as he tightened the noose. He paused and glanced up, "Please! Please don't. Don't kill him. He wasn't thinking straight. I said my goodbyes, I chose you. Must you kill him? Please!"

He frowned. "He dared to touch what is mine. Look away."

Christine refused to do so, "No! Please, Master, please don't!"

His jaw set. "If you wish to witness his demise, then by all means – continue watching."

"Master, please!" She sobbed, her knees shaking. "I chose you. Isn't that enough?"

The Punjab cracked Raoul's neck. "No."

Christine pressed her palm to her mouth, tears falling as she watched the lifeless body of her childhood friend impact the floor, and watched her Master replace his lasso. He came to stand before her, one gloved hand brushing her tears away roughly. "Do not cry for him. And do not disobey me or argue with me again; or perhaps next time I'll give _you_ a little taste of the Punjab."

She managed a stuttering breath, trembling violently, eyes on Raoul's still form. A single black-leather hand gripped her chin and pushed her face up so that she was forced to meet his gaze. "Come."

He let her go and took a step away, offering a hand. Trying to bite back her tears, Christine obediently took his hand and let him lead her back into the darkness.

* * *

"_I chose you._" The words echoed around his mind as he led his little Christine back down into his dark home. She followed, completely docile, obviously afraid of inciting his wrath, tears still glistening on her cheeks. Her hand was fragile and warm, he could feel it through his leather glove, trembling. She was afraid he would blame her for the attack of Raoul on her person.

"Don't be afraid of me." He whispered at her as he led her through the darkness, "I am not going to harm you, just as long as you obey me."

He felt her confusion, caught the scent of her fear – it was lessened, but she could not trust his word entirely. He kept his grip firm, unsure as to whether or not she would run, and continued to escort her.

They reached the gondola in a short amount of time and he began to help her in, but found her reluctant to enter. "What's wrong?" He inquired, careful to keep his tone non-aggressive.

"I…will you take me back to my room?" She inquired faintly, "I want to change my clothes, and I'm tired."

"Hush." He got her into the gondola – she didn't argue, despite her obvious reluctance, and they made the trek to his lair in silence. Upon the boat nudging the bank he helped her out and inquired, "What do you wish to change into?"

She seemed surprised at the question, and after a long moment, replied – "Just…my sleeping gown, for now."

"Very well. And in the morning?"

"My leotard." She smiled weakly, "I have rehearsals."

"Very good. Give me five minutes." He made sure to exit behind a curtain – knowing she wouldn't dare to follow.

"He's…going to go get my clothing?" Christine wasn't sure she approved of the idea of a man pawing through her garments. But what was she to say? She certainly wasn't too pleased by the idea of angering him. Keeping him as calm and gentle as he had been since they'd left Raoul's private little room was a priority.

He obviously didn't want her to leave. He was going to great lengths to keep her with him…so she would just give in and stay for now, as long as he let her loose for her rehearsals.

That seemed to be his plan. Keep her with him unless she needed to be elsewhere, and then take her back again. He didn't trust her. Christine sighed and after a few minutes grew bored.

She began to explore her current residence. She knew the room where she'd slept, and she knew the main room with all of the beautiful music. Despite wanting to, she did not dare touch his music – that seemed to be something he very much wanted to keep a secret.

After a minute of searching for something to look at, she found a curtain that was only three-quarters pulled. Unable to resist, she peeked behind it.

She stared back at herself. A mannequin that was sculpted to her exact likeness with eerie precision – it even had that freckle just underneath her right ear. Christine felt her head spin as she stared at what was a mark of obsession. She found herself even more terrified of the man whose name she was never told.

"You were not supposed to see that." He breathed from just over her shoulder, "I wish you hadn't felt the need to pry. You are quite the Pandora, aren't you, Christine?" She stiffened, eyes closing out of a deep instinct that told her if she couldn't see him he couldn't see her. His chilly hand brushed her arm. "Don't be frightened. I'm not angry with you."

She turned, eyes opening as she made the motion, and stared at his face for a moment to test his honesty. When she discovered that what he said was true, Christine smiled and nodded. "I…it was a shock."

"A lesser girl might have fainted." He smirked at her, "I'm glad you didn't. Perhaps, one day…" His voice faded away and his almost-smile vanished. After a moment he shoved his bundle at her. "Change." He turned away from her and made his way to his piano.

"Thank you, Master." Christine offered faintly.

"My name is Erik. Call me that, when I am not teaching you." He sounded almost angry that he had not given her his name before. He took a seat, and began to play – the sound was ferocious and had any other man been playing it might have been discordant. Even the vicious music was beautiful when…Erik…made it.

Christine ventured into the bedroom and changed swiftly. She knew she shouldn't let a man see her in her sleeping shift, but she didn't want to leave him out there alone, when he still sounded so angry.

Stepping lightly, she ventured from the curtained room and made her way toward his hunched figure, the music echoing and buffeting her almost physically. "_How can I trust you?_" She breathed.

"**How can you not?**" He sang right back, not looking up.

"_Why do you frighten me so, when you've done nothing to harm me?_" Only Raoul…who by then had to have been discovered, dead of a broken neck…the thought made her shiver.

"**Why do you flee from me, when I'm only trying to make you see?**"

He finally looked up, his hands relaxing from the piano keys as he rose, walking toward her slowly, still with that predatory calculation.

"How is it that you can answer each question with a question?"

"How is it that you do nothing but ask questions?" He was flashing the beginnings of a smile, and he shook his head at her. "You are a most confusing girl." Still shaking his head he walked by her, tugging the curtain closed as though it hadn't crossed his mind to so until then.

Christine watched him silently, before the question that had been tingling her lips burst free without her permission, "Why won't you let me see your face yet, Erik? You'll tell me your name, you'll show me your home, but you won't-"

"'B' scale." He snapped suddenly and Christine knew that her question was not falling upon receptive ears. She resisted the urge to groan and without much hesitation launched into the scale as he'd ordered. When she reached as high as she could go she went back down to the lowest she could manage. "Again."

Christine was made to repeat it at least four more times, her head dizzy she sighed and caught him before he could order her to do it once more. "I get the point. Lesson learned, I'll drop the topic. I apologize." He paused and glanced at her. She put on her most contrite face. He sighed and nodded.

"Christine." Erik murmured after a moment of hesitation, "Perhaps, one day you may see my face. If you will accept a trade." The thought of what seemed to have occur to him made him appear suddenly cheerful.

Confused, Christine tried to imagine what the trade would be. "What would you require?"

Erik vanished behind a curtain for a moment before reappearing with a glinting ring in his palm. "When you will accept my proposal of marriage, I will show you my face – let you into the darkest secret I protect. Until the time when you honestly wish to marry me, you will not see my flesh that hides under the mask." Christine stared at him silently. She would not accept such a thing, a marriage to satisfy her curiosity? Preposterous. "I do not want you to accept simply to calm your wonderings about me." It was as though he could read her mind.

"I will remember your offer." She managed.

"It will be right here, waiting for you." Erik replied, settling the ring in a prominent place atop the piano. "Now I know it's early, but you need to go to bed."

Christine didn't argue as he led her by the hand to the bed, and let him tuck her in. "Sing to me?"

"Sing to you?" He seemed startled by the request – but not angry.

She nodded, "Please? I shan't sleep if you don't."

"Ah, if that's the case – then I shall." He let the ghost of a smile dance across his lips before he turned away. "**Child of the wilderness…/Born into emptiness…/Learn to be lonely…/Learn to find your way, in darkness…/Who will be there, for you/Comfort and care, for you/Learn, to be lonely…/Learn to be your one companion…/Never dreamed, out in the world…/There are arms, to hold you…/You've…always…known…/Your heart was on its own…/So laugh, in your loneliness…/Child of the wilderness…/Learn to be lonely…/Learn how to love, life that is lived…/Alone…/Learn, to be lonely…/Life can be lived, life can be loved…/Alone…**" Christine had not cried so hard at a song in her entire life.

She tried to stifle her sobs, but they refused to quiet and she sat up, reaching her arms out to him as a child might. Erik slowly, hesitantly, sat and fell into her embrace. "I'm sorry, my darling, I've upset you." Christine hiccupped, sobbing harder at the fact that he was worried about having upset _her_.

"That song…your soul…" She knew she was making no sense, but she was crying too hard to really care anymore. All Christine knew was that she didn't want to let him go. "Sleep here? With me? Please?" She whispered.

"It is not proper, and I must-"

"No!" Christine cried, "Stay with me!" She tightened her own grasp, refusing to lessen it when he tried to pull away.

"Suddenly grew a backbone?" He laughed, mocking her.

"Please, Erik." Christine realized that her tears were still streaming. "Don't leave me. Don't learn to be lonely. Let my arms hold you."

"I will not leave the darkness, Christine."

"I will bring the light to you." She pleaded, more tears spilling.

"Are you accepting my proposal?"

"Can I not comfort you without being your fiancé? I'm not ready yet."

"Very well." He pushed her down and lay beside her, still tucked in her embrace. "I will allow you to comfort me, since you seem so bent on it." Christine relaxed, holding him tightly, and closed her eyes, resting against him with her grasp as tight as before as though he would try to escape her in the night. She refused to allow him to flee her comfort.

* * *

Erik waited for her to fall asleep before he rolled over, keeping her lithe form in place with his own, staring at her with a hunger that could not be fed…yet. She'd walked right into his proposal with her stubborn curiosity, he knew her acceptance was only a matter of time. "Why do you promise to bring me the light, when all you want to do is flee, my dearest?" No answer came from her. She was so accursedly innocent, she would sleep beside him without the slightest hint of fear.

Perhaps murdering the Vicomte before her eyes had been rather…harsh. But the man had been touching Christine, speaking with her…it was all so infuriating. He'd followed the pair to church, killed the Vicomte's carriage man, taken extra long getting the two to their destination, and turned the clock ahead.

As orchestrated, the Vicomte fell right into the trap and put himself into Erik's waiting hands. Just because the entire day had been planned – including the drugging of the young man's morning tea – didn't mean the insolent fool didn't deserve to die for the crime of being near what was _Erik's_. The girl was his alone.

Christine shifted uncomfortably beneath him, whimpering softly in her sleep, and he realized that he was probably hurting her. After a moment of contemplation, he shifted himself off of her and lay beside her once more, watching her sleep.

He was growing soft – daring to reconsider his beautifully crafted murder of the Vicomte de Chagney. It was time to take Christine out of his presence for a bit.


	3. Phantom

**My Dearest Reader:**

**Your continued support is very much appreciated. Erik admits that he has been pleased with his role in this tale thus far and wishes to continue to participate. Christine offers that she, too, is pleased. We all bow to your continued attention to our narrative, and ask that you continue. We also apologize for the delay; due to family obligations we were unable to update.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night**

* * *

**Maître**

_Chapter Three_

Phantom

* * *

Christine did not expect to awaken in her room, wrapped up in Erik's cloak, atop her bed. She sat up slowly, her eyes sore from crying, her wrists and back sore from Raoul's assault.

Erik was nowhere to be found – but a single red rose with a black ribbon tied around it lay beside her, atop her folded leotard.

'_Did I somehow anger him? Did I do something to make him want me to leave?_' Christine wondered, worried, as she dressed for rehearsal. Her eyes drifted to her mirror slowly.

She knew that the only plausible reason for the consistent dousing of the candle flames was a draft from his entrances. The only entrance she could think of was the mirror. Christine didn't know _how_ he did it, but she could sense him when she was near the glass.

"I'm sorry…" She offered to the invisible form of her teacher before turning and hurrying away, pulling her hair into a bun.

She didn't notice the mirror open a bit behind her, nor did she notice the hand that reached out as if to grab her, before pulling back and letting the mirror slide slowly back into place.

* * *

"Think of me!" Carlotta sang in her screeching soprano, well past her prime. "Think of me fondly, when we've say _gooo-biiieee_! 'Member me! Once in a while, please promises to me, you'll try!"

Christine wrinkled her nose, trying not to let the Prima Donna see her distaste – just as the others were trying to do. This was such a broad change from Erik's pure tone that she was almost in physical pain.

"She's almost done." Meg whispered playfully as they passed during one of their revolutions as the chained chorus girls.

"Almost?" Christine replied pitifully, twirling to her right – careful not to yank at the chain on her wrist.

Meg's soft laughter echoed in her ears as the blonde dipped into a bow and spun once again.

The managers, André and…well, his name – Firmin – was rather hard to recall so Christine remembered him as 'Monsieur Hair-Poof', or MHP for short, were watching with rapt attention. The dancers, not the lead soprano who was looking decidedly unpleasant.

"Okay! I'm done! I leave now! Bye-bye, bring doggie, I leave now!"

Christine watched with faint amusement as the managers groveled and pleaded – again – and somehow convinced Carlotta that they simply _had_ to hear her Ahria once more. Of course, Carlotta didn't argue for long and she pleasantly took her place, before unpleasantly beginning her singing once more.

In her younger years, Carlotta had been beautiful – Christine had listened to the music that the woman had produced with rapt attention as a child, jealous of the skill. Nevertheless, she was beyond her prime now – and her music was more painful than entrancing.

"Think of me!" Carlotta began again, her voice full of more vibrato that it had been the first time, "Think of me ffoooonddddlllyyyy-" It all happened to swiftly for Christine to comprehend until it was over. One of the drops loosed from the fly and careened for the caterwauling star, who realized her danger just in the nick of time and moved.

Screams echoed the theatre as the drop's crash resounded with deadly weight. Christine leapt backwards, nearly knocking Meg over. Her blonde friend wrapped her in a hug. "It's the Phantom!" The girl whispered.

"The Phantom…" Christine breathed. Of course, in her years at the Opera House she'd heard of the Phantom…but he'd never carried out such a blatant display of power before. She looked up, feeling burning eyes, and caught a flash of white and then a movement of shadow.

Her attention returned to the conversation going on beside her when she heard Firmin speaking. "My dear, these things _do_ happen!"

"They do 'appen? For the last three years these things _do_ 'appen! Well, you stop dem from 'appening, or this thing do not _'appen_!" Carlotta spun and stormed away, ranting nonsensical words.

The managers watched her go with rather depressed looks on their faces. Christine freed herself from Meg's embrace and the two quietly went back to stretching, not wanting to call the wrath of Madame Giry upon themselves.

"We're ruined, we'll have to refund a full house! A _full house_!" Firmin was, as Christine had heard once, 'pitching a spasm'…or something akin to that. He was yanking at his hair, face turning several different colours at once.

"Christine Daeé could sing it, sir." Christine felt the colour drain from her cheeks, and snapped about to stare at Madame Giry, who was looking at her with something akin to apology – a suspicious thing.

"A _chorus girl?_" André laughed, "How silly!"

The conductor held up his baton, "Just a moment, sir. I have heard this girl sing."

"She has taken lessons from a great teacher, she may have already improved upon what you last heard."

Christine felt as though she were invisible, and hoped André would continue his 'no'. Alas, Firmin stepped in. "Very well, sing the Ahria, Christine. We'll see how you do. Oh, this is doing _nothing_ for my nerves…"

Christine took a step back. "Oh, no, I-"

"Miss Daeé, I have a letter here, from the Opera Ghost." Madame Giry held it out and Christine accepted it, confused.

Trying not to be entirely terrified by the skull seal, Christine opened the note and slipped the parchment out nervously.

_Christine:_

_Just do it._

_-Erik_

She felt the colour return to her face in a dizzying rush. Erik was writing her now? Perhaps she hadn't angered him. Madame Giry had said 'Opera Ghost', though. Why was she calling Erik the…the realization made her breath stop for a moment. Erik was the Phantom of the Opera. She'd been putting herself defenselessly in the hands of the Opera's Phantom.

"Christine?" Madame Giry murmured, "We are waiting."

"Oh! I apologize." Christine replaced the letter and Madame Giry took it for her. She walked slowly to stand near the front of the stage.

The conductor half-smiled at her, "From the beginning of the Ahria, if you please, Mademoiselle."

Christine nodded weakly. A faint accompaniment began and Christine knew instinctively that if she sang at that octave, Erik would have her head. "Could…you go up two octaves? Please?" She inquired weakly.

"No, Mademoiselle. Please sing."

Oh, he was going to love this. At least she'd tried. Christine took a deep breath, low in her stomach, and matched her expected pitch with what she was given. "_Think of me_…" Her voice was small in the large theatre, "_Think of me fondly…when we've said goodbye._" Christine sensed warm bodies pressing back onto the stage, listening to her, and she fumbled for a moment in her nervousness.

"**Remember me**…" Came a faint, echoing voice from somewhere above and Christine glanced up for a moment before realizing who it was and what they meant.

"_Remember me, once in a while; please promise me…you'll try_…" She swallowed, "_When you find, that once again, you long to take your heart back and be free_," Christine hesitated, glancing at Madame Giry – the closest thing to a mother figure that she had – and the prim woman nodded sharply with a gentle hand motion to show that Christine was doing just fine and needed to step it up. "_If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me_…" Her confidence in her own words was beginning to grow. She could feel them flowing and began to relax. "_We never said, our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea…but if you can still remember, stop and think of me_…"

"She…where has she been hiding?" Christine heard the whispering of the managers behind her echoing in the other performers further back.

Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? Who knew, and at this point, Christine didn't care. She could sense the pleasure of Erik even from as far away as she stood. It was, to her surprise, difficult to stay in her medium register instead of breaking into her high soprano.

"_Think of, all the things we've shared and seen…don't think about the way, things might have been…Think of me_…"

"I will…" Breathed a voice in the distance, not Erik's.

"_Think of me waking, silent and resigned,_" Christine felt her stomach calm and her heart return to a steady beat instead of the flutter it had been at.

"I do…" Came another, somewhat more lecherous, voice from the other side of the room.

"_Imagine me, trying too hard, to put you from my mind…Recall those days, reflect on all those times, think of the things we'll never do…there will never be, another day, when I won't think of you…_" Her voice finally lifted of its own accord, disregarding and wholly overcoming the accompaniment that swiftly gave up. Christine held the high note until she felt her head lightening. Then she let it fade, enjoying the heady sense of power that she got from the fact that the people around her barely dared to breath while she was singing.

When the note had faded enough, Christine began the final verse, "_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons so do we, but promise me that sometimes…you…will…think…_" She hesitated.

"Go on." Meg breathed.

"_Ah-ah-ah-ah! Oh-ohoh-ah-ah-oh-ah! Ah-ah-ah-ah-uh-aahhh…**o-ahhhhh-of me**_!" Christine could not help but enjoy the resounding sound of her high-pitched soprano resounding from the stupendous acoustics of the opera house, and the sharp intakes of breath all around the stage as she hit notes that Carlotta in her earlier years had achieved with ease, but now could only dream of.

"Bravo! Magnifica! Stupenda!"

Christine felt a blush dusting her cheeks.

"You are most certainly playing the lead, Miss Daeé!"

"Thank you but…no." Christine spun and dashed from the stage, head down, her fright and shyness getting the better of her. She raced down the hall toward the chapel – how could she possibly play a _lead_? She'd forget, she'd make a disgrace of herself and the opera house and she'd-

A familiar, cold, gloved hand grasping her shoulder and yanking her about cut off Christine's panicked thoughts and running in the same instant.

"Why do you insist on forcing yourself into a subordinate position? I set up the game, you moved the pieces, and then you ran just before the checkmate. _What is wrong with you_?"

Christine dropped her eyes, not bothering to attempt shrugging his hands off. She deserved his anger.

He wasn't impressed by her docile reaction and tightened his grip until her bones creaked, shaking her slightly before continuing to speak. "I had forgotten how innocent and shy you were, when I pushed you into an impromptu rehearsal. But you cannot let your fear get in the way of your career. We may have only had a few lessons, but I believe you're ready for this. It is not a challenge for you. More work will be needed for larger roles, but you are ready to perform in Hannibal. Resist the urge to be frightened. Go back now."

Christine shook her head slowly, staring at her feet, "Please don't make me do this."

"I cannot let you ruin your own future. Go now." He shoved her in the direction he wanted her heading, letting her go.

Christine resisted the instant urge to say no. He knew best, did he not? He hadn't told her to do anything that had been bad for her – even her separation from Raoul had ended up being in her best interests. If not in Raoul's best interests.

"Obey me, Christine." His hand ran down her throat and then he was gone, back into the shadows he'd risen from.

Slowly she turned, and made her way back to the stage, where there was talk flying of her sudden reluctance to take the lead.

"I have spoken to my teacher." Christine spoke quietly, but just the same everyone quieted for her words, "And if I am still offered the part, I would be willing to accept it and apologize for my behaviour of moments before."

Firmin and André seemed completely relieved to levels that Christine had not known existed. "Please, my dear, think no more of it. We were going to cast you if we had to toss you onstage opening night and hope you remembered the lines." The words were said amiably by MHP –Firmin, and Christine found herself grinning at him.

* * *

"Bravo! **Bravo**!" Cheered the crowd loudly, shrieking praise of this new Prima Donna. She made her way slowly from the stage after the customary two bows, trying to stay the nervous trembling of her hands. She'd calmed after the first song, but now her nerves were back full-blast.

Her nerves were not for people she didn't know, not anymore. They were for the people that she _did_ know. What if Meg disliked it? Madame Giry? _Erik_? What if he'd been wrong and was now angry with her? She could have sworn that she'd messed up the second Ahria.

"You were perfect!" Meg cried, giving Christine an embrace that likely shifted many of her vertebrae.

"Thank you." Christine glowed, her eyes shifting to Madame Giry, who took her by the arm.

"Come with me." The girl followed her Madame through the mobs of people wanting to congratulate her, steal her, kiss her…it was all rather overwhelming. Once they finally reached the dressing room Christine gave a sigh of relief.

Madame Giry still seemed incredibly anxious about something and she went to the mirror of the dressing room with a suspicious look. Her brows pulled together as though she had found something she hadn't wanted to find and she grabbed the dressing screen and dragged it in between Christine, herself, and the mirror. That done, she pulled Christine to the corner furthest from the mirror. "He may not be able to hear us here." She whispered into Christine's ear, "The Phantom of the Opera has been holding you prisoner for too long. He asked…ordered… me to give you this." She pressed a blood-coloured rose with a black ribbon tied neatly around the stem.

"Why is it so bad?" Christine whispered right back, "He has been teaching me!"

"And he's grown obsessed with you. If he knew what I was about to tell you, he'd-"

"Kill you?" Erik inquired lightly from where he leaned against the wall, just beyond the mirror.

Madame Giry's face went to an unhealthy pasty colour. She edged between Christine and Erik. "I know I saved you, but you have grown to be a very possessive young man, Erik, and I am beginning to regret taking you from the gypsies."

"Perhaps if you hadn't I'd be dead." Erik agreed, "But hindsight is twenty-twenty, is it not, Madame Giry?" A wicked smile had spread across his lips, "And it seems you've already told Christine a bit too much. Perhaps I'll just-"

"Please don't!" Christine cried the instant she realized what he was thinking of doing. "She's been my teacher for so long…"

"Perhaps it is time for you to choose which teacher you wish to continue instruction under."

"Erik…please don't make me choose." Christine whispered. "If you make me choose between Madame Giry and you, I will be forced to choose Madame Giry." His face lit with rage and surprise. "She took me under her wing when I was but a wandering child. I get the feeling she did the same for you; I know you don't want to hurt her. Please don't make me choose between you. Can I not continue to learn from both of you?" Why was she being forced to make so many decisions so very suddenly? It was getting nerve-wracking.

He contemplated her wishes, gnawing on his lip. Christine waited for his reply, and noticed a calculating look dance across his visible features.

"Perhaps we can work out some sort of agreement. Is that plausible, Christine?" She nodded silently. "Madame?" A silent nod from that woman as well. "Very good. Here is what I propose: Live in my lair, with me – all propriety, of course, until you accept my…other proposal. You may come up here when you wish, and continue taking lessons from the good Madame."

Christine's gaze darted to Madame Giry, who looked horrified by the proposal.

Her gaze darted to stare at her own reflection in the vanity mirror. Her skin was deathly white, eyes wide, and she still clutched the rose. She also knew that she was nodding. Startled at herself Christine let her eyes return to Erik, who was watching her impassively. He seemed rather surprised at her nodding, but did not seem willing to argue with her.

"Very good." He murmured stiffly, his gaze on Madame Giry with something very akin to gloating on his face. She glared at him with an icy look that suggested she didn't want to hear about it – and that the fight wasn't over yet.

"Thank you for your encouragement, Madame, and I'll see you at rehearsal on Monday?" Christine did love the weekends.

"Rehearsal for what, child?" Christine hesitated. That was true, rehearsal was over. Required practice was only Wednesday through Friday; optional practice was Monday and Tuesday.

"Not rehearsal then, practice." She corrected herself with a faint smile.

"Very well." Madame Giry nodded at Christine, "I will see you on Monday at the usual time." Christine noted that the Madame was careful not to say anything solid – such as a time, so Christine could escape Erik's grasp early if she felt the need to do so.

Christine didn't know why she would, he seemed to have calmed himself, and had not tried to seriously injure her since he'd appeared just in time to protect her from Raoul. Which lead to the question of exactly how he knew she was in danger…and how he knew where she was…and how he got there so swiftly…but Christine chose not to ask.

"Good night, Madame." Christine murmured at the exact same time as Erik. As soon as the regal woman had vacated the room, the Phantom turned on Christine, who flinched.

H smiled at her, which surprised her immensely, she'd expected anger. "You did well." He murmured, "Brava…brava…bravissima…"

Christine stared at him for a long moment, before she returned his smile with a cherry-cheeked grin of her own. "Thank you." She whispered, genuinely pleased that _he_ was pleased.

"Gather your things, Christine." He turned away, "I'm taking you home."

* * *

The rules seemed to have changed. He led her a new way, a way without the fancy boat that seemed stationary to their journeys. They came out from a mirror, one of the curtained mirrors that she had not touched.

"Welcome back." Erik smiled, carrying her single bag. Christine smiled nervously, his cloak – which she'd kept folded neatly on her bed – wrapped about her shoulders. He seemed bemused to see her in that cloak, and had murmured something about her needing one of her own. Apparently she looked silly in a cloak made for a man twice her height and size…fancy that.

He led her to his piano and left her there, delivering her bag to the bedroom and returning with her brush. "May I?" He inquired lightly – obviously only pretending to give her a choice, indicating that he wished to brush her hair. Christine knew it was still up in the complicated hairstyle from the gala, and therefore would be difficult to argue down her self, so she smiled and nodded. He positioned her so that her back was to him and she was sitting primly, and straddled the bench behind her, brush in hand.

His fingers were deft in removing the hair pins and anything else that might get in the way, and then he gently undid the twists and curls and braids. Christine's scalp was notoriously tender, and she was surprised to find that his tugging was done with extreme care, and he did not pull her hair once. Even when he began to run the brush through her curls he did so slowly and patiently, until all of the tangles were gone, then he ran the brush through the entire length of her hair a few more times for good measure.

That complete he rose and vacated the room to replace her brush. He entered just as Christine was about to put her hair into its usual bun. "No." He said firmly, pushing her arms down. She quirked a confused eyebrow at her and he murmured, "Keep your hair down. It's too pretty to put up."

Christine paused and then nodded, "All right." '_Note to self: hair down._' He seemed pleased, and favoured her with a smile before turning away.

"Are you hungry?" Christine nodded, as though he could see her. He seemed to catch the action anyway, "Same meal as before?" She nodded again and he ventured from her with one last parting shot, "Go where you like, as long as you do not leave. Do not touch my music, or my piano." Then he was gone.

Christine rose from the piano bench, moving slowly toward the curtain that obscured the mannequin from view. She stared at the perfect version of herself silently for a minute or two. It was eerie in its likeness and at the same time…almost sweet. Which was a rather strange thought, but Christine couldn't help it. That he would spend so much time sculpting a mannequin and a beautiful wedding dress, all that time drawing pictures…all that time loving her…it was enough to turn any young girl's head.

It certainly turned Christine's. She knew that she could not escape him, and wasn't sure she wanted to – even when his eyes burned. He was so full of passion, he ignited her soul. Perhaps she could, just this once, give in to her urge to do something without thinking it to death. Refusing him might _mean_ death. Christine's eyes settled on the ring for a long moment before she leaned against the piano, fingers idly tracing the keys.

The last thing Christine expected to feel moments later was the Punjab lasso tightening around her throat.


	4. Disobedience

**My Dearest Reader:**

**Once again, I thank you for your patience and continued support of this tale. The amount of feedback I have received for only three chapters is absolutely stunning. I appreciate all of your lovely words of encouragement. I also have a response for one "xAdenX", who inquired as to the origin of the lyrics used when Erik took Christine to his home in chapter one. Yes, I did in fact write those myself with some elements of the show. Thank you for noticing. Now, a few words of advice, once spoken by Madame Giry, "The Angel sees; the Angel knows".**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

**Maître**

_Chapter Four_

Disobedience

* * *

"What did I tell you?" Erik hissed. _She_ knew that _he_ knew full well that _she_ could not speak. The Punjab was far too tight about her throat, and it was taking all of her energy and attention just to manage tiny gasps of air.

He yanked her to him, pressing her arms to her sides and inadvertently pressing what little air she'd struggled for out of her lungs. Christine's abused throat was on fire, she coughed weakly for air, gaining very little. Her first instinct was to struggle with him, to try yanking free.

It didn't take more than two tries for her to realize that this tactic was not going to work.

"_I warned you_! I told you _not_ to touch my piano! Must you be so _bloody_ disobedient to even a small order?"

Christine gasped quietly for air, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He had stopped tightening the Punjab and had begun to loosen it, very slowly. Christine felt tears burning her eyes, tears of pain and terror and relief as some air rushed into her screaming lungs.

When she had enough to speak, she apologized, "I'm sorry. I forgot. The keys are just so pretty-"

"Always have an excuse, don't you, Christine?" Erik taunted as he finally pulled the noose from her throat and pushed her away.

She stumbled and fell, hitting her head on the piano bench as she went to her knees, giving a cry of pain. Erik's arms encircled her waist in an instant, pulling her from the cold floor into his marginally warmer chest.

"There, there now." He soothed softly, "You're okay." He shushed her very gently and carried her with him to the bed, where he set her down and went to retrieve the cloak she'd been using, wrapping it once again around her.

Christine watched him with wide eyes, afraid to move, uncertain of his mood now.

He settled beside her, black hair glinting a bit too much in the light – as though it were false – and pulled her onto his lap. Christine sat there silently, her throat burning inside and out. "I didn't mean to lose my temper with you, my darling, you have my apology. But I warned you not to touch my piano."

"I'm sorry." Christine blurted. He nodded at her in acceptance of the apology. "I was thinking and I didn't realize I was-"

"Quiet." His chin came to rest atop her head and Christine fell silent. "All is forgiven. But you really must learn to obey your teacher. You have such perfect respect for the Madame, and you'll need to gain it for me."

"I do respect you!"

"If you respected me," He murmured, "Then you would not have disobeyed me."

Christine felt tears trembling at the edges of her eyelashes and she nodded her acceptance of that reasoning. "I'll try harder." She whispered.

"Good girl." He seemed content to sit there with her, and Christine found herself wanting to ask a new question.

"Erik," She started hesitantly, "May I ask you a question?"

He seemed to mull that over, "Yes."

"Are you the Phantom of the Opera?" His grasp tightened for an instant before relaxing, letting Christine breathe easily once more.

"Yes, Christine, I am he."

"So…you kill men…men like Raoul?"

His hand hit her face in a slap that was firm, but did not hurt. It was more of a shock. "Do not say _his_ name."

"All right." Christine hastened to respond, not wishing to anger him any further, "Okay. I'm sorry."

"I know you are." Erik replied, "And yes, I am a cold-blooded murderer. Those who anger me find their throats slit or find themselves Punjabbed." His grasp was firm but not painful – yet. "I wallow in blood, and I enjoy it. Is that what you wanted to know?"

Christine swallowed hard, shrinking in his grasp and wanting to shrug away but not free to do so. He stroked her neck, chin still resting atop her head.

The brunette whispered, "Please don't do that."

His hand stopped, "Why?"

"It hurts."

He lifted her from his lap, setting her beside him, and tilted her chin up. Christine watched as mild fascination lit his eyes. "I've never seen someone survive a Punjabbing, I didn't realize that it would tear up the neck so much." His tone was that of someone learning and enjoying it.

"Well, it does." Christine couldn't help letting a bit of bitterness creep into her voice, "That rope is not smooth."

"Well, I've used it to kill so many that it probably has roughened." His tone was matter-of-fact that Christine felt the colour fading from her cheeks once again. Erik rose, "Stay here." He vanished for a moment and returned with a bottle, a cloth, and the tray of food he'd retrieved just before finding Christine touching the piano. "This might sting." He offered as he set the tray down beside her on the bed and tilted her chin up once more, opening the bottle and splashing the contents onto the rag.

Christine winced, "Then perhaps – ow!" She hissed through her teeth as he tenderly dabbed the torn skin of her throat, with whatever medicinal substance he had at his disposal.

"Almost done…there." He backed off, and Christine resisted the urge to grasp her throat. The burning receded after a moment, fading into a cold numbness, and then a pleasurable lack of sensation.

"What is that?" She inquired curiously.

"It's just an herbal remedy that I discovered. One does tend to take falls in these caverns." He smirked at her and indicated the food. "Eat."

Christine noticed that there was less to the meal this time – just enough for her. He was obviously not going to put up with her convincing him to eat with her. She sighed and obeyed his command, eating slowly.

When she was through dining, Christine watched Erik moving about for a bit before inquiring, "Do you have any water?"

"Water?" He blinked at her for a moment before seeming to realize what she needed. "Eh, I forgot about that. Just a moment, I'll be right back."

Christine watched him leave again. He had left her alone. She dropped the cloak and slipped through one of the mirrors, running. Perhaps Madame Giry could help her get out of this Opera House and she'd never have to see him again.

He seemed to be psychic. "**_Christine_**!" She heard the angry roar behind her. Christine bit her lip to hold back a whimper and kept running, panting for air through her bruised throat. The trip would end soon. Almost there. She could see the light – a single candle lit the cave at the end of the tunnel that lead into several different exits.

Choosing swiftly, Christine dove through one exit, slamming it shut behind her and pushing a heavy chair in the way. It would slow him down by about three seconds. She made a mad dash from whatever room she'd entered, racing for the stage – all roads lead to the stage, so she'd get there eventually.

To her surprise, Christine reached the stage rather swiftly. Pleased that she'd not chosen to wear her sleeping shift yet, she dove onto the busy platform amidst the people striking the set. Madame Giry was there to oversee, and as soon as her eyes lit on Christine, who was wild-eyed with a neck rubbed raw by the Punjab, the mistress came to the girl's side in an instant.

"He hurt you?" Madame Giry whispered. "I knew he would."

Christine fought the urge to cry. "He's following me."

"He wouldn't follow you onto the stage." Madame Giry comforted, wrapping her arm around the girl's frail shoulders, "Too many people."

"So many victims, so little time." Erik mocked from the shadows, his voice cold. Christine felt her hands begin to tremble. "How shall I choose? Eeny-meeny-miney-_mo_!" His Punjab lashed out. Christine flinched but it encircled the throat of the man nearest her, Joseph Buquet, and with a jerk Erik broke his neck.

Christine screamed. His eyes lit on her, full of icy flame. "You disobeyed me _again_, Christine. You do realize that this means I have to punish you? Perhaps not you…but watching your little companions being murdered won't do a thing to brighten your day."

"Please don't!" Christine whispered.

"Why ever not? I've told you who I am and what I've done. I've shared my secrets with you, and you obviously didn't believe me."

"You've kept one secret." Christine replied faintly.

"True. But we've already discussed that." He was still in the shadows, safe from eyes – only his lasso was visible as he slipped it expertly from Joseph's throat, and his mask.

"Christine," Meg whispered, "What is he- oh!" The lasso slipped around her throat and pulled taut.

"Meg!" Christine cried, stepping toward her friend, stopping when the lasso tightened. "If you kill her," She hissed, "I will never speak to you again!"

Erik paused, obviously contemplating her words. "You threaten me?"

"Yes. _Please_, Erik, please don't."

He seemed to contemplate it, and then once again expertly recalled his Punjab. "We'll discuss this later." Then he was gone.

* * *

"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade, Masquerade!" Christine giggled as she spun about the room, carried by the tide of dancers. Meg was right alongside her, in her lowcut white-feathered dress. Christine had chosen an off-pink dress, with beautiful folds in the skirt and a well-made bodice.

"Christine, watch this!" Meg executed a pretty little dance move that she'd learned just that day and Christine clapped accordingly, amused.

Erik had not been around for months. He had left her an explicit warning – if she were to move out of the Opera House, he would find her and kill anyone she'd become close to. So Christine stayed. She'd returned to her normal routine as a chorus girl – without the Opera Ghost there to pull strings for her she was content to remain in her lower position.

"Masquerade-" Christine didn't catch the rest of the words, as a slam of a door had caught her attention. She stared up just in time to watch a very familiar figure, swathed in red, stroll confidently into the room.

Gasps from around the room silenced the music and the singers, who were swift to pull from the middle of the stairs as he began a slow, mocking traipse down the stairs. "Why so silent, good Monsieurs?" He crooned, "Did you think, that I have left you…for good?" A smirk crossed his lips, "Have you missed me, good Monsieurs?" He tilted his head a bit, "I have written you an Opera. Here I bring, the finished score…" He lifted a black-bound sheaf of papers, flashed them, and threw the bundle to the ground almost carelessly. "Don Juan," His sword slid from its sheath with a deadly noise, "**Triumphant**!"

Christine felt her heart leap to her throat. He glanced at her, his black-lined eyes predatory once more, "Fondest greetings to you all. A few instructions, just before rehearsal starts." His sword traced down Carlotta's cheek, leaving a thin line of blood, "Carlotta must be taught to **act**, not her normal trick, of strutting 'round the stage." His attention turned to Piangi, who he nudged in the stomach with the weapon drawing a welling of blood, "Our Don Juan must lose some weight; it's not healthy, in a man of Piangi's **age**."

Christine watched him round on Firmin and André, "And my managers must learn, that their place is in an **office**, not the **arts**." Another smirk as he rounded on her, his sword slipping expertly back into its sheath, "And as for our star, **Miss Christine Daeé.**"

He seemed to be taking malicious pleasure in this, "No doubt she'll do her best. It's true, her voice is good, she knows, though, she has much yet to learn, if pride will let her return to me. Her **teacher**…**her teacher**…"

Christine watched him as he walked toward her, slowly. It was as though he wanted her to honestly return to him. As though he were no longer angry. Why did that seem so wrong?

He came to stand before her, and Christine let herself hope. Then he grabbed her shoulders fiercely, digging his fingers into the bones, and dragged her to him, kissing her fiercely. Christine wriggled against him, but he didn't let her go until she finally gave in and went limp in his grasp. "**You belong to me.**" He hissed as though reminding her of a fact she'd forgotten.

He threw her backwards, Christine would have fallen had Meg not been there to support her, and gathered his blood-coloured cloak into his arms, dropping through a passageway in the floor with a burst of flame. She watched with terror catching her breath in her throat.

Firmin had the Opera in his hands, "This is well-written." He offered faintly, "And he's already cast it."

"Should we perform it, though?" Madame Giry inquired sharply, "He's plotting something."

"Of course. If we don't, we run the risk of angering the Phantom of the Opera. We've figured out that this is a bad thing, you yourself mentioned that."

* * *

"Passarino, faithful friend, once again recite the plan!" Christine zoned out of the conversation. This play sounded like something Erik would write. Especially when he was angry. Plotting her semi-demise. This was just excellent. She hoped the guards would nab him the instant he tried to come in to watch. Box five was empty for him, as he'd demanded, but thus far no one had seen him. It looked like she'd have to go through with this song of desire with…Piangi.

Her cue came from nowhere and Christine's throat went dry. After a moment, she finally began to sing as she walked slowly across the stage, clutching the basket. Her opening song went well, smoothly. She even hit the ridiculously high note at the end of 'love'.

Finally she took her seat, and ignored the entrance of Piangi.

"Master." She heard a breathy voice murmur.

"Passarino. Go away, for the trap it is set…and waits for it's **prey**…" Christine began to get feelings of deep nervousness. "**You have come here/ in pursuit of your deepest urge/ in pursuit of that wish which 'til now has been silent./ I have brought you/ that our passions may fuse and merge./ In your mind you've already succumbed to me/ dropped all defenses/ completely succumbed to me.**"

Christine felt her colour fleeing once again. Not six feet away stood Erik, smirking at her as she slowly stood, unable to run or imagine trying to escape. His gaze was full of possessive dominance. "**Now you are here with me./No second thoughts.**" A smirk danced across his lips, "**You've decided…decided…**" He took a step toward her, a slow one that showed he was waiting for her to try to run and had the power to stop her the instant she tried. "**Past, the point of no return/the final threshold./No backward glances/The games we've played/Till not are at an end…/Past all thought of "if" or "when"/No use resisting/Abandon thought, and let the dream/Descend…"** He was circling her, predatory. He moved eerily fast, and was behind her in an instant his hand around her throat the other around her waist. His grip was firm, but no pressure was applied. "**What raging fires shall flood the soul/What rich desire unlocks it's door/What sweet seduction, lies before…us?**" He moved from behind her, raking his hands – ungloved for the first time, across her shoulders and down her arm, holding her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to it. He wore a strange mask, not his usual brand. This one was black. "**Past, the point of no return,**" He was walking backwards, and she was forced to walk with him or be dragged – she chose to walk. "**The final threshold/What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn/Beyond the point…/Of no…/Return…**"

Christine tugged her hand free, backing up and turning away. She felt his burning gaze upon her. "_You have brought me/to that moment where words run dry/to that moment where speech disappears into silence…silence…" _She swallowed hard,_ "I have come here…/hardly knowing the reason why/In my mind I've already imagined/Our-_" She hesitated, glancing at Madame Giry who was staring at her with an expression of horrified pity. But she still nodded to her. Christine was feeling vulnerable, alone. "_Bodies entwining, defenseless and silent…/Now I am here with you, no second thoughts…_" She turned a bit, her eyes meeting Erik's, before glancing away of their own accord, "_I've decided…decided. Past, the point of no return…_" She started for the wooden staircase behind her. He matched her, walking slowly. His expression was amused, and darkly sexy. "_No going back now/Our passion-play has now at last begun./Past all thought of "right" or "wrong"/One final question…/How long should we two wait/Before we're one?_"

He was watching her closely, "_When will the blood begin to race/The sleeping bud burst into bloom?_" Christine couldn't believe she was singing this, nor could she believe that she was singing it to Erik. She also couldn't believe that she was beginning to enjoy herself. "_When will the flames/At last…consume…us…?_"

She moved toward him, but was unable to finish her trek. He caught the slack and grasped her, pulling her to his chest. She timidly placed her hands on his sides. He seemed amused by that, and grasped her hands, spinning her and pressing her back against him as they began the finale.

"**_Past the point of no return/The final threshold/The bridge is crossed, so stand…/And watch it burn./We've passed the point…of no, return…_**" Christine felt his chin rest on her shoulder and she tilted her head to the side, feeling his fingers interlace with hers as he gently raised both of their hands up, tracing her body, and resting on her collarbone.

"Come back to me, Christine." He whispered, more of a demand than a request.

"Let me go, please, Erik. Let me be free. I want to be free."

"No." He murmured, "Last chance to come willingly."

Christine felt tears, a twin pair, slip down her face. They reached her chin at the exact same moment and dripped onto Erik's hands. He released her hands, and drew his hands up to her face, brushing across her wet cheeks.

"Come with me, Christine. Stay with me. This is your last chance to come peacefully."

She shook her head silently, trembling. "No."

"Very well." His arm dropped to her waist, pulling her tightly against him, and whipped out his sword, "You brought this upon them all." He whispered into her ear, and swiped. The rapier slid though the rope with little effort, and Christine managed a gasping breath as the chandelier sliced through the air, dropping toward the crowd.

"No!" She screamed, fighting him.

He shook his head, grip firm. "You will come with me?"

"Oh god you're going to kill them!" She watched it plummet.

He spun her and shook her – demanding her attention, "**You will come with me?**"

She sobbed, nodding her head. He smiled and let her free, turning her around. Christine watched with wide eyes as the chandelier swung over the heads of the crowd, rocking back and forth harmlessly over the terrified patrons. She gasped for air, relief weakening her knees.

He caught her before she could fall and pulled her against him. She hesitated and then wrapped her arms around his neck. She'd just promised to go with him for a second time. Christine wasn't sure she wanted to, but the girl knew that he was already angry with her – she didn't want anyone else to die for her freedom.

He kicked a lever, and the trapdoor underneath them gave way. Christine cried out as they fell, grasping him tighter. He kept his even grip and was relaxed – as though falling incredible heights was a normal event for him.

* * *

He had planned the escapade to the letter. Christine made an interesting 'oomph!' noise as they hit, flinching. He seemed unaffected. They had landed atop something soft…she wasn't sure what it was, but it gave under their weight and then rebounded and sent the two stumbling down the hall.

As soon as they reached light, Christine stopped walking. He turned, to either yell at her or inquire as to why she refused to move, but her hand darted out whip-fast and she yanked his mask off. His false hair went with it, leaving him exposed to her for the first time. The right side of his face was twisted and malformed, lacking several features and overdone in some areas. His true hair colour was an off-brown, as though the pigment had not wholly settled.

His hand connected with her cheek before she had time to move away and Christine fell backwards, still clutching the mask, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. Where he'd hit stung this time, and she felt tears prickling her eyes. But she refused to give in just yet.

"**Damn you! You little prying _Pandora_! You little demon, _this _is what you wanted to see?**" He dropped his hand from where it had flown to cover his face for an instant, advancing on her before whipping away, his fury incredible. "**Curse you! You little lying _Delilah_! You little _Viper_, now you cannot _ever_ be free!"**

Christine pressed her back to the wall, her tears struggling to fall. She had cried so much, though, that she refused to let herself do so without a fight. He had turned back to her again, but his violent rage had faded a bit, "**Stranger than you dreamt it…can you even bear to look or bear to think of me? This Gargoyle, who burns in hell but secretly yearns for heaven…secretly…Christine…Fear can turn to love,**" He advanced on her, placing his hands to either side of her head. Christine pulled further back, closing her eyes and turning her face away. "**You learn to look to see the man behind the mask, this loathsome carcass, who seems a monster but secretly dreams of beauty secretly…secretly…Oh, Christine…**" She wasn't sure if he was angry or sad. "You know what you've done?" She shook her head silently, "You have inadvertently just become my fiancé."

She turned her head back to stare at him. He was still hovering over her. He continued, "The deal was that when you accepted my proposal, I would show you my deepest secret. You have jumped the gun and pried, therefore you will marry me."

Christine dropped her gaze. It was true. In a twisted way, he made sense. And he won. "You're right."

"I know I am." He pushed away, grasped her wrist, and began to walk down the hall. He sang softly, as though the lyrics were supposed to serenade her. "**Down once more, to the dungeons of my black despair. Down we plunge to the prison of my mind. Down once more into darkness deep as _hell_…**" He glanced back at her, "**Why, you ask, was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place?**" She cringed back, "**Not for any mortal sin, but the wickedness of my abhorrent face!**" Christine felt his anger in the tension of his fingers.

He led her to the gondola – they were back to the boat, were they? Very well. She let him pick her up and put her in the boat. Christine remained quiet as he viciously propelled the boat.

"**Hounded out by everyone, met with hatred everywhere…no compassion anywhere…why, Christine, _why_**?" He was furious. Christine hadn't expected him to go from angry to calm to terrifying angry in a minute's time. He was unbalanced. He was dangerous.

He pulled her from the boat and dragged her up the incline to the curtained off wedding dress. He glanced from her to it and back again, order obvious. Christine flinched backwards. "No." She whispered, "I won't." She attempted, "_Angel of music…guide and guardian…_" That gave him pause and he stared at her, waiting for her to continue. "_Angel of music…hide no longer…_" He continued to watch her. Christine realized she was still holding the mask.

She hesitated and then threw it away, casting it to the ground. "_Pitiful creature of darkness…what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you…you are _not_ alone…_" Christine stepped forward, running her hand across his malformed cheek. He took a sharp breath and she persisted, tracing the entire right side of his face with her fingertips before placing a kiss on the distorted cheek and backing away.

He let the curtain fall back into place, watching her with what seemed to be almost innocence. "Christine…" He whispered, his hand drifting to his face.

"_Your face holds no terror for me…_" She breathed.

He stepped forward, his strong arms wrapping tightly about her shoulders. "Thank you." He buried his face in her neck. Christine was uncertain, but after a moment she gave in and reached up, returning the embrace. She could not put as much passion into it, but she did her best.


	5. Pure

**My Dearest Reader:**

**Once more, thank you very much for your continued interest. Now, let us see if Christine can truly bring the light into Erik's darkness. A slight warning; this chapter gets mildly darker and more risque than usual.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

**Maître**

_Chapter Five_

Pure

* * *

"**Seal my fate tonight…**" Erik's angel-like voice awoke Christine. She was confused at first. Her last waking memory was of a hug…the emotional turmoil must have been too much. She hoped she hadn't looked too strange falling asleep in the arms of the Phantom of the Opera.

Rising, Christine drifted from the bed into the main room, where Erik was … sewing.

Shocked at this outright display of feminine traits from a man that was so terrifying, Christine watched him silently until he finished. He noticed her just as he tied off his last stitch, and a smirk danced across his lips. "I can't very well go to the market." He offered with a grin.

Christine nodded with a weak smile, as though it made sense. She realized that she was cold, hadn't noticed where Erik's cloak had gone. He rose, holding blood-red fabric in his hands. She'd seen fabric like that in the costume-room of the Opera House.

He offered it to her and Christine realized that she was looking at a cloak. "Now you will look a bit less silly." He smiled and she accepted the cloth.

Tentative, feeling the softness of the fabric and what would soon be warmth, Christine slipped it around her shoulders. She was still wearing her skimpy costume from Don Juan so she was more than a little bit grateful for the warmth. The cloak fell to her ankles, loose and flowing, clinging to her shoulders with perfection – it had obviously been carefully tailored for her.

Christine blushed and smiled, "Thank you." She whispered. He seemed pleased at her acceptance of his gift.

Then he rose, advancing on her. Christine flinched away, and was surprised when all he did was slip her hair decoration away and run his fingers through her curls. Then he turned and wandered back to his piano, taking a seat. Christine stayed far from the wooden wonder of craftsmanship.

"Come here." He held out an arm for her.

* * *

She was still afraid of him, Erik couldn't blame her. He'd done nothing to earn her trust. All he'd done was hit her – she had a bruise darkening her cheek in a broad smudge – and yell at her and force her creatively back into his arms. And murder people in front of her.

Despite all of that, she was still terribly innocent. Still terrified of him. Could still love him. _Fear can turn to love._ It was possible. All he had to do was work a bit more. Eventually she'd learn to obey him; and then she'd learn to trust him. Preferably in that order – he was tiring of having to constantly discipline her obstinacy.

She was slow to obey his order, obviously uncomfortable being anywhere near him and his piano. After all, last time she'd dared to be near the piano he'd tried to strangle her. After a long hesitation, Christine slowly came to his side and let him wrap his arm around her, pulling her to sit beside him on the bench.

She was stiff in his grasp, uncertain of relaxing anywhere near him. Erik felt a bit of pain stab his heart. He hadn't truly meant to allow her to become _this_ frightened of him. He loved her too much to honestly want to hurt her. But the series of events that had led up to that moment left no other possibility.

"**Think of me, think of me fondly…**" He sang to her gently, before moving with what he knew was abnormal speed and sweeping her up in his arms, cradling her against him with one arm under her legs and the other around her shoulders. "You're tired." He whispered gently, "let us put you to bed."

"But I –"

"You were out for a short time, a few hours. You need much more rest to be ready for tomorrow." The words escaped before he could honestly think about it.

"Tomorrow?" Christine inquired weakly, "What's going to happen tomorrow?"

* * *

She was unable to help her curiosity. Her arms went around his neck of their own accord, an instinct that told her to fear being dropped. He seemed almost pleased by that reaction, if not by her question. "You'll have to see what comes."

Christine knew that she could no longer argue with him, as he was obviously not interested in hearing her speaking anymore. He carried her lithely, unencumbered by her weight, and settled her back in the bed, cloak and all. He tucked her in slowly and neatly, and seemed to be contemplating something. Hoping, almost as though there was something he wanted to hear.

When no question was forthcoming from her, he took the initiative. "Would you like me to stay?" His voice was very matter-of-fact, as though it didn't matter to him one way or the other. Christine knew fully well that this was wholly untrue, he was going crazy inside.

"No." She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillows, hoping he wouldn't physically harm her. She heard him hesitate.

"Very well." He drifted away, his voice sounding almost sad…but he seemed to accept that she had her reasons for wanting to sleep alone. As soon as she could no longer sense him behind her, she rolled onto her left side and curled into herself, asleep in moments – more exhausted than she'd realized.

* * *

Whoever said 'Tomorrow never comes' had obviously never met Erik; Phantom of the Opera. Christine felt as though she'd been asleep for mere seconds before he was awakening her.

Knowing Erik…this wasn't a completely crazy supposition.

"Wake up, my darling." He whispered, shaking her shoulder. Christine wriggled away from him, but he seemed unwilling to give up and his cold hand brushed down her cheek and stroked her throat gently.

She groaned softly and ducked away from his icy hand. "Cold." She whispered.

"I know. It's always cold down here." He crooned, brushing stray locks out of her face. "Come now, Christine, wake."

Finally she opened her eyes, staring up at him for a long moment before yawning and rolling away from him, not leaving the bed – the floor was probably going to be colder than the frigid air – but making sure that her point, that she didn't appreciate his touch, was made.

"Come, let's-" He took her arm.

Christine pulled back from him, dodging his attempt to grasp her. "Don't touch me."

"Don't…" His voice dropped to a dangerous hiss, "Touch you?"

"Yes." Christine replied firmly, "I said I'd come with you, but I didn't say I would be yours."

"Alas, my dear, you did." He leaned in, getting into her face, "When you removed my mask," Which was back in place, "You damned yourself to become my bride. That says you are mine."

"No." Christine muttered, "It means nothing."

"Oh, what is marriage without consummation?" His hand drifted to her thigh, pressing against the thin cloth of the dress pointedly – it was not much protection.

Christine shied away, and he followed her, hopping onto the bed. He seemed to be having some sort of fun. "Marriage can be a union of convenience. There is no rule that states we must-"

"When you are married to me, Christine, _we will_."

She felt her face and throat heating up terribly, and she tried to leap from the bed. He was swift to catch her about the waist, pulling her underneath him and straddling her stomach. Christine stared at him wide-eyed, gasping for air. He was a bit heavier than he looked.

"Please let me go." Christine whispered, lower lip beginning to tremble.

He stroked her cheek, as though trying to show her that he wasn't going to do anything to her. After a minute of dead silence, a pure stalemate, had passed, Christine began to calm down.

Erik stared down at her silently, still sitting on her. "There, are you done being irrational?" She nodded and he got up, pulling her up with him. "Then come on." Christine let him lead her once more, from the room and back to the piano. Christine couldn't help shying back from the instrument. Erik was unimpressed and pulled her with him, standing her beside it. "High C scale."

Relieved that they were back to the safe ground of music, Christine was more than pleased to be singing for him. Perhaps if she sang enough, he would sing with her. Terrifying, evil, murderous, lecherous…but he had the voice of an angel.

* * *

"Christine." He called from the outer room. The instant they'd finished their lesson she'd retreated to the bedroom that was her sanctuary – he tended to stay out of it…thank goodness. Reading War and Peace, which was not exactly her favourite book in the world, Christine found herself still wanting to ignore his call. "_Christine_."

She decided that perhaps she should answer. "Yes?" She found a torn scrap of paper and marked her page, settling the book on the bed…and then moving it and perching it atop the bedside table. Christine exited the room, looking around for Erik.

He was standing in the middle of the room, impatiently awaiting her. When she got to him he half-smiled and took her hand, wrapping something around her wrist. Curious, Christine looked closer, and realized it was an end of a rope. He tied it deftly, and she trailed it with her eyes to see that the other end was located wrapped around an iron hook.

Seeing the tilt of her head, Erik seemed to feel the sudden urge to explain himself. "This is to keep you from running." He patted her atop the head and turned away, vanishing through one of the mirrors.

Christine blinked. She blinked once more before turning her attention to her wrist. The knot was snug but not tight – just to the point where there was no getting it off. The crafty knot was made so that too much tugging against it or attempting to untie it would make it tighter.

She didn't bother to try. She just went to his piano and defiantly played a few random keys with a flourish.

Then she looked around worriedly and rubbed the keys to erase traces of her existence, eyes drifting to one of the candles atop the piano. Without much thought of the consequences Christine lifted her wrist to the flame, watching with mild fascination as the rope began to burn, and so did her skin. An unfortunate side-effect. She was still stubborn enough to wait until the rope broke before she pulled away from the flame, ignoring the searing red mark across the inside of her right wrist, Christine let the rope fall and with a swish of her own cloak scampered through the mirror beside the one he'd used.

* * *

Erik returned to find the rope lying, broken and burned, on the floor. "She is certainly getting to be a defiant little brat." He sighed, his hand drifting to his side, grasping the Punjab hidden just behind his hip. A stationary weapon any time he ventured from his lair.

A familiar scent caught his attention just before he ventured angrily from the room. Christine – she always had a very distinctive scent of flowers. To be more precise, red roses. The Don Juan type.

He let the Punjab return to its hiding place, and let his cloak drop to cover it. A few steps later, he reached out and grasped a velvet-red curtain. The mirror it covered he didn't use much for travel, it lead to the outside.

Pulling it aside, he found Christine leaning against the wall, staring up at him. She looked a bit like a mouse, trapped in the light. "I thought you'd escaped," He murmured, "Again."

She shook her head with an exhausted sigh. "I knew you'd find me, no matter where I went. And I figure I'm not going to let the third time be the 'charm', this time." He knew she was referring to the three tries it took for her to be on time to their lessons.

"You are correct. You cannot escape me." He reached down and grasped her arm, pulling Christine to her feet once more. She seemed frustrated, which was understandable. To be honest, he'd rather expected – the instant he'd realized she was, in fact, creative and smart enough to figure out the usability of the candles he'd left lit for her – her to run. Almost looked forward to it. The hunt was always amusing, if the consequences he was forced to impart for her actions were not.

Yes, Erik had left those candles lit for her on purpose, made sure at least two were within reach. He was testing her. He wasn't sure, exactly, whether she'd passed or failed. She'd employed the candles, but she'd only hidden from him – not run.

So, he would have to say she only got half-credit on this test; pass or fail was not an option here. So he would have to adjust his plans for her a bit.

"Why do you persist in running from me, Christine? Have I not yet shown you that if you do not flee I will not have to chase you?" Okay, so it was logical to an extreme – perhaps to the point of sounding inane. But it made sense to him.

She nodded quietly, eyes downcast as though she were truly apologetic. Something was up. Frowning, Erik pulled her close without warning, taking a deep breath of her. He smelled the roses, and something else. Something very faint. "Who is that?" He hissed.

"Who is-?" Anger filled him without warning. The one emotion that Erik had no control over, his Anger. Well, okay, one of two. He shook her, knowing that it would probably hurt her since she wasn't facing him and couldn't tell he was about to do so which would have given her time to get ready.

"Don't play innocent." He snarled, "You came back, but you _did_ leave. Who is he?"

"Who is-?"

"For the love of _your God_ girl, don't play innocent with me!" He saw tears in her eyes. Curses, he had a hard time putting up with her tears. She cried every time he got angry with her…spoke to her…looked at her…breathed the same air as her…and _every_ time he wanted to give in to her.

"I…" Her brown eyes stared at the ground for a moment before she tried to shy away from him. Erik knew already that he wasn't going to like the news. So he gave her a survival chance and let her go. "He was just a friend. We did _nothing_." Ah, so she had caught on to his jealousy. "We spoke only. He wanted to be sure I was alright after what happened…at the Don Juan performance."

"Why do you carry his scent?" He had to admit; it was faint enough that it might have just brushed off.

"He hugged me when he first saw me, he was overjoyed. _Please_ don't kill him, Erik!" She was shifting nervously, anxious that he should be calm.

Erik considered it. Why did she seem to attract men so well? He had killed three in the last week that had been staring at her lustfully. Another 'old friend', hmmm? Perhaps like the Vicomte? The drug had only brought out the boy's deep desires; urges could not be created…only unsuppressed. If the Vicomte _hadn't_ wanted to press Christine against a wall and steal her from Erik, then the drug would have done nothing to lead to his demise.

She was tearing up again. Blast.

"Fine." Erik snapped. "For now he will live. But you will not sneak away to visit him again."

She seemed almost insulted, "I didn't go to see him in the first place!" A hesitation, "He…was the one that convinced me to come back."

Erik fondly stroked her cheek, amused. "That's a cute story, my dear. But what _man_ would convince a woman of your caliber to go to another man?"

"A man…" She dropped her eyes and pulled further away from him, a blush beginning to rise in her cheeks, "Who wasn't interested in women."

Erik would have blushed, had he the blood circulation to do it. Alas, all those years in the abyss of the opera had left him rather cold. "Ah." He finally replied, tilting his head, "It seems you had a perfect answer for that question, as well. Do you blush because the thought of a relation such as that embarrasses you, or do you blush because you cannot lie to save your life?"

* * *

Did he always have to be so terribly difficult? Christine herself was getting frustrated. "I came back to you!" She felt her legs move forward _without_ her permission. "Can you please _stop_ reading into it?" She poked his chest, "And the smelling thing? Getting kind of creepy!" That done she spun away and scampered into the bedroom hoping and praying he wouldn't follow.

Dead silence for several seconds.

"…Did you just…poke me?"

* * *

Later that evening, Christine found herself hungry beyond all belief. She'd skipped breakfast…and lunch…and was close to skipping dinner. Perhaps he would have some food handy about.

Okay…perhaps she could make a break for it while he was distracted and nab some food from the Opera House kitchens and then eat it.

Erik seemed to be waiting for her. When she poked her head from the bedroom he was there in an instant. Christine yipped in surprise, but before she could leap back he pressed a tray into her hands, poked her shoulder, and walked away.

Christine stared. "…Did he just…poke me?"

* * *

Two days passed in a tense semi-silence, only broken for Christine's voice lessons. She was content to hear him sing and he was content to teach her to sing in duet with him. Everything was oddly peaceful. Until Erik got impatient again.

"Christine!" She awoke to her name and groaned. Certainly he couldn't want _another_ lesson already. "Christine!" He seemed excited about something. She barely made it out the door before something white was thrust into her hands. A lot of fabric. Familiar fabric.

"What?" She asked, adjusting the folds until she realized what she held. With a tiny gasp she let it go.

Erik caught it, pressing it back into her arms. "Change. I got you a priest so you'll feel all nice and official, and the papers need only your signature."

She shook her head several times, desperate. "No!" She threw the dress at him and retreated, "I won't! I don't want to!"

"Christine." He whispered, voice firm, "Change, or so help me; I'll do it for you."

This was enough of a threat and when he handed her the dress she took it obediently, vanishing into the bedroom. It took her several minutes to change from her current clothing – a sleeping shift – into the wedding gown.

The gown was pretty, of course, but it represented all that she was going to lose, if Erik had his say in it.

She was slow to venture from the bedroom but when she did he was there in a split second, in a nice suit that seemed oddly familiar, a thick cloak snug about his shoulders. Christine wished she hadn't left her cloak behind, but it hadn't seemed to fit the dress.

Her shivering wasn't from the cold, anyway.

He led her by the hand to the gondola, where she sat in her usual place and they moved swiftly, silence ringing in their ears, broken only by the occasional splash of the oar in the water.

Christine felt as though she were in a dream as he lead her up a set of stairs, through a back-hall that gave her a glimpse of a window which showed her that it was, in fact, nighttime, and up a few more flights of stairs.

Then down. Two flights, around a bend, and into the chapel where she used to light candles for her father. A man garbed in the traditional uniform for a priest stood there, looking extremely nervous. Christine didn't blame him, but she was much more nervous.

"We're going to do this right." Erik murmured, leaving her at the back of the chapel and drifting to the small, mistreated piano in the corner. He played the wedding march easily, his fingers dancing. Christine couldn't help enjoying his music…but all the same, it sounded like the funeral hymn to her.

As she stood at the door of the chapel, she contemplated exactly what was about to happen. He had all of the right paperwork in place, and was about to marry them before the eyes of her God. He was leaving her absolutely no way out. That was cruel.

"Go." Erik whispered, his voice clear even though he was across the room. Christine took the first step and her eyes filled with tears, blurring her path. The second and they spilled. A third and she was gone, focused on the hot tears that slipped down her cheeks, ignoring the fact that she was still almost magnetically pulled to the makeshift altar.

Once there, Christine found Erik at her side in a moment. He was gentle, brushing away her tears. She refused to look at him, and the priest was looking at her with absolute pity. Two witnesses stood in the back of the church, both looking rather bored and as though they were probably getting a hefty payoff for being there. The genius always got the details right.

Except for one minor thing: the bride wanted nothing to do with him.

"Dearly beloved…we are gathered here today to witness the joining between this man and woman." Christine shuddered at his choice of words. Erik reached out to her and she cringed away. He ignored this fact and still grasped her hand, pulling her closer to him.

The priest got to the vows swiftly, "Do you, Erik…uh…Erik. Do you take Christine Daeé to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?"

"I do." Erik murmured seriously, no hint of his usual mockery in his tone.

"And do you, Christine Daeé, take…Erik…to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?"

"Please, Erik, no." She whispered. He shook his head at her. Christine dropped her eyes, her hand still clasped in his. "…I do…" She whispered faintly.

The priest seemed to want to reach out and heal her distress. Christine felt more tears slip down her face. "Very well, the rings?" The father inquired.

Erik produced them and let her hand go, only to grasp her left hand and slip the ring that he'd originally left on the piano onto her hand. He then offered her a simple golden band. Christine stared at it for several long moments, tears blurring her vision once more, before silently slipping it into place on his hand.

"Very well then, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride." Erik reached out for her and Christine backed away. He frowned and moved swiftly, catching her about the waist and pulling her to him, kissing each cheek – kissing her tears away, she realized. Then his lips ghosted across hers, and he let go. Christine scrubbed the backs of her hands under her eyes, surprised that being married to Erik didn't send sudden hellfire and brimstone into her soul. It certainly did a number on her spirit.

The paperwork went swiftly, a few signatures and it was all done and filed and pretty and organized and damning.

When that was through, Erik grasped Christine's hand and led her back into the world of unending night.

* * *

"Perhaps I'll figure out how to build us a fireplace." Erik offered suddenly, as they exited the gondola and Christine was already shivering. He took his cloak and made to put it around her shoulders but she slipped away, refusing it. She'd rather freeze to death now than worry about what was to come next.

'_When you are married to me, Christine, we _will_.'_ Those words still rang mockingly in her mind, daring her to resist them.

Erik had followed her onto the platform where his piano rested and he tried again to give her his warming cloak, but again was refused as she slipped away. "You are trying to freeze!" He accused.

"How very _astute_ of you, oh brilliant one." Christine muttered, her crying beginning to make her irritable.

"You are hungry?" Erik offered.

She hesitated, and then nodded. He was swift to somehow produce a meal from nowhere, well – okay. A cabinet. But there hadn't been food there last time she'd explored.

"Here you go. Our wedding dinner." He set it atop the piano bench and sat neatly on the floor beside it. Christine wandered by and took a bit of food, walked away, ate it, wandered by, and repeated the process. This seemed to perturb him, but he decided not to argue.

When they were both through eating, he offered to get them champagne. Christine, seeing nothing to celebrate about, declined. He decided that drinking it alone was never any fun.

* * *

The dreaded hour came far too swiftly. Erik had waited patiently for the whole day to pass by, trying to entice her into random celebratory things. Beyond agreeing to dine with him for breakfast and lunch and dinner, Christine was not exactly receptive.

He didn't get the hint.

The instant night fell, the moment it was dark once more in the lair except for the candles, Christine – who was happily staring into space – felt his hand draw across her back.

Nearly jumping out of her skin she spun and found him half-smiling. He moved around in front of her slowly, eyes locked with hers. Christine held her breath.

He took a step back and she let the breath out, trying not to tremble violently. "**Night time, sharpens…heightens each sensation…**" He breathed, his song sounding almost like a lullaby. "**Darkness, stirs…and wakes the imagination…**" He advanced, offering his hand. Christine shook her head and he backed off. "**Silently the senses, abandon their defenses…**" He offered his hand once more. This time, knowing he would persist until she gave in, Christine finally just accepted the grasp. "**Slowly, _gently…_**" Christine noticed a very specific emphasis on 'gently'. "**Night unfurls its splendor…**" He began to back up, leading her. "**Grasp it, sense it…tremulous and tender…**" With his free hand he beckoned her, still moving with deliberate slowness. Christine couldn't help but be mesmerized by his voice. A candle flame flickering brighter than the others caught her attention for a moment and when she glanced at it, he brushed his fingers across her chin, drawing her attention back to him with a snap. "**Turn your face away, from the garish light of day…**" A smile, "**Turn your thoughts, from cold…unfeeling light…**"

Christine didn't find that funny.

"**And listen…to the music of the night…**" He led her up the steps to where his piano rested. Christine immediately drifted wide of the instrument, but he didn't seem interested in that, he was focused on his song. "**Close your eyes and surrender, to your darkest dreams. Purge all thoughts, of the world you knew before.**" Christine didn't want to. "**Close your eyes; let your spirit start to soar…**" She looked away, tears burning her eyes once more. "**And you'll live, as you've never lived…before…**"

"**Softly, deftly, music shall caress you…**" _Sure, that's the only thing._ "**Hear it…feel it…secretly possess you…**" He moved in a bit too much and Christine felt her breath catch. "**Open up your mind…let your fantasies unwind.**" _Fantasies of…?_"**In this darkness, that you know you cannot fight.**" _I can try._ "**The darkness, of the music of the night…**" He loosened his grip for a moment, and she pulled her hand away. "**Let your mind start a journey, through a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before…**" Christine watched him circling her in his predatory manner once more and shuddered. "**Let your soul, take you where you long to _be_…**"

Again he had moved in, too close. Christine longed to take a step back, but at the same time she was surprised to find herself rather entranced by his song. "**Only then…can you belong…to me…**" She gulped.

His movement was so sudden that Christine didn't realize she was being pulled in and spun until she was already pressed against him, head tilted automatically to the right. "**Floating, falling…sweet intoxication…**" His hand drifted down her side, running along her hip to her thigh, and then conveniently finding her hand. Christine held her breath. He lifted her hand to his semi-warm cheek. "**Touch me…trust me…**

Christine tried to pull her hand away and free herself, but he didn't seem terribly open to that idea. "**Savour each sensation…**" _No._ "**Let the dream begin,**" He let her pull her left hand free but snatched her right hand and began to lead her again. "**Let your darker side give in…to the power of the music that I write…the power, of the music of the night…**"

They were at the bedroom curtain and inside before Christine had time to think about it. She yanked her hand free and made to escape the room but he was somehow between her and the way out.

"Calm down." He purred. She shook her head fiercely. Erik was unamused and moved forward swiftly, grasping her arms and in a moment pinning her to the bed. Christine thrashed, and bit him.

That was quite possibly the last thing that he expected, that he paused for a moment to stare first at her and then at his hand. "…Well…ow." He offered, with a smirk. Obviously that ploy had not done much to help her.

Christine felt more tears in her eyes. No tears. She closed her eyes and turned her face from Erik so he wouldn't be able to catch on to the weakness, refusing to stay still.

"You're not making self-control any easier, my dear." Erik murmured caustically.

Christine gasped, shocked at how crude he could be. He released one of her arms, after she'd stilled, and reached up to set her hair back into its usual place. Christine tried to duck away but he was unmoved by the attempts.

"I don't want to, Erik." She attempted faintly, "Please, don't make me." He frowned at her and she dropped her gaze for a long moment before meeting his eyes once again. "Please?"

He shook his head. She was getting tired of the all-powerful headshake.

"This is my choice, too, Erik!" She cried angrily.

"Perhaps." He stroked her arm, "But mayhap I can change your mind."

"No." Christine whispered, "I'm too young for this sort of thing."

"Oh, are you?" He mocked.

"…I'm…too…uh…" Okay, so she didn't have a reason. Except for one very important one. "I'm afraid." She whispered.

This seemed to surprise him, giving him pause, and he tilted his head. "Of what?"

"You!... It!... Pain! Us! …_You!_" Christine's voice grew louder with each word until it broke and tears began to stream down her cheeks with the last shout.

"Don't cry, don't cry." Erik soothed immediately, letting her other arm go and making sure he was not sitting upon her, pulling her to him. He brushed her cheeks gently – his hands had been gloved and now weren't, Christine didn't know what had happened there.

"Don't make me. Please don't make me. I'm afraid." Christine repeated over and over in a desperate whisper.

Erik pulled her closer, grip gentle. "All right. All right. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. If you're this frightened, we'll wait. Calm down." He stroked her hair gently, his hand drifting from her curls down her cheek, and back again. He didn't attempt anything with his other hand beyond supporting her.

At first Christine still struggled for freedom, but after a bit she began to calm down, her tears slowing, as she began to trust his word. He hadn't tried anything yet, he was being gentle. He had finally listened to her, all was well.

Christine thought that if he had pushed her a bit further, she might have gone hysterical. Then there would have been a bit of a problem. She didn't remember much after that, she did recall him pulling her onto his lap and moving both of them under the blankets of the bed – wholly dressed.

After that, all she remembered was the music of the night.


	6. Erik

**My Dearest Reader:**

**Welcome back. We're pleased that you continue to involve yourself in our tale. Please try not to be too harsh. To answer an inquiry from "Orli's EEP Chica", the title means 'Maestro' or 'Master'.**

**Your Humble Servant**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

**Maître**

_Chapter Six_

Erik

* * *

Little was known about Erik's life. He didn't like cauliflower, he was a vegetarian, and he was allergic to trout. No one asked for any of that information. His favourite colour was maroon, he enjoyed meditation, and he was an over-achieving perfectionist. Were he a cat, he'd have ten lives; not nine.

Alas, all Christine was interested in was hiding from him.

"Christine! Come on, you must be getting hungry." He coaxed, sighing irritably. He didn't want to have to walk into her room – privacy seemed to be a slight obsession with her. Erik understood 'obsession'.

"No." She snapped from somewhere behind the curtain.

Stubborn little chit. Erik rolled his eyes. Three days had to have been enough to get her tummy rumbling, but she refused to give in to the urge to come out and eat.

He'd been so out of sorts that night, so bent on showing her how much he loved her and how easy it would be for her to return that love, that he had ignored her obvious panic and tried to force her into… he didn't like to think about it.

"I already said I was sorry, Christine." He grumbled, "I wish you didn't have to be so irritating."

"Leave me alone!" Christine shouted.

"Curse you girl, you are getting on my nerves." Erik knew he was already losing his temper – this was not a good thing. He used to have such perfect control. She broke so much passion free that anger and other more…negative…emotions tended to escape as well.

"Get out of my mind." Christine was obviously not expecting him to be standing outside of the curtain, and therefore didn't think he'd hear that. Out of her mind? What strange things came out of this girl's mouth.

"Last chance, Christine, you come out and eat with me or you will go hungry tonight."

"I'll go hungry."

Erik spun from the curtain, and went to his piano. Sitting swiftly he began to play, taking his anger and frustration out on the keys. At first it was nothing but a discordant pounding, echoing fiercely about the room and making his finely tuned and sensitive ears ache. Swiftly it changed into something with a semblance of a tune, and he let himself be wrapped up in the music.

This was why he didn't notice Christine's curtain pull to the side a bit and her tiny figure scamper from the room.

He certainly noticed the sudden absence of a warm body – her frame never seemed to accept the fact that it acclimating to the cold would be easier on the girl. "Christine?" Dead silence. "_Christine_?" More silence.

Rage hardened his heart and stiffened his jaw. The girl…she was going to be the death of her.

* * *

Christine knew she was being stubborn, and knew she should have stayed. But if she didn't get some sunlight she might go insane. _He _certainly wasn't going to let her out. Her right hand drifted to her left, brushing across the ring that lay on her finger. She felt as though she were married to her death.

What a frightening thought. "**Christine!**" Echoed ferociously behind her and she picked up her speed. All she had on was a nightgown and the cloak, which made for easier running than a full formal suit and a heavy cloak. So maybe she could get outside before he'd catch her.

The light loomed ahead and she felt relief flood her senses. The door waited before her invitingly. Christine reached out and took the handle trying to slip into the day. To her surprise, the handle did not give. It was locked. Of all the unfairness, the universe was laughing madly, Christine had not given consideration to the fact that Erik might be smart enough to lock the doors.

Her heart leapt into her throat, as she heard slow, deliberate footsteps. He wanted her to know he was wandering along behind her. She swallowed hard, certain that her face was white enough to glow in the darkness. _Your face, Christine, 'tis white!_

For a moment, Christine wildly considered rushing Erik in the encompassing darkness. That thought planted…and then was uprooted and tossed away. He could see in the dark and she could not.

"Oh _Chri-sti-ne_…" Erik mocked, almost playfully. "Where are you?"

Christine startled; he was very close. Step…step…step…silence. That was much more unnerving then being able to hear him coming.

She backed up toward the light, figuring if she were in light he'd have to come into it as well and then he would lose his ability to sneak up on her. The Punjab was around her throat before she could get more than a step into the light. A startled cry escaped her as the rope pulled taut.

"Now, now, Christine." He murmured, "Wouldn't want you to get too far away."

She felt her eyes fill with tears, again. They were sore from all of the crying – she hated it. All he did seemed to make her cry. Closing her eyes for a moment, she breathed through the tears and when she gazed once more on the darkness her eyes were dry.

"Erik." She murmured flatly, "I was not trying to run away."

"Weren't you?" He inquired lightly, his voice closer. The rope was moving, indicating that he was walking toward her, winding the lasso as we went. He had not pulled it tight about her throat yet.

"No." She hated to admit this, "I just…wanted to see daylight again."

"You can see daylight in our home; if you ever came _out of your room_ you would know that."

"That daylight is cold! I'm tired of being cold, I just want to stand in the warm sun and feel my limbs once more without the tingling."

He came into the light then, his face pale and mask ghostly, the exact cliché of the Phantom. "You wanted to run from me." Christine wasn't sure whether he was mocking her or angry. Perhaps both. The noose was still loose about her throat.

"I did not. If I wanted to run, would I have chosen this route? Please let me out, let me stand in the sunlight. I will come back." Christine pleaded hopefully.

The noose left her neck – the tug was careful, as though Erik were making sure not to leave the nasty gashes he'd managed last time. "No." He grasped her wrist and began to pull her behind him back down the hall.

"What is your problem?" Christine snapped, "How am I supposed to love this cruel monster you show me?" He spun on her as he released her wrist, grasping her shoulders and throwing her against the wall of the tunnel, pressing her there.

"Monster? You would call me a monster?" He snarled into her face

"Yes! I would!" Christine shouted in reply.

"And why do _you_ call me a Monster?"

"You've been so malicious, Erik, so downright vicious. You've shown me no kindness, given no quarter! You would have raped me, if you hadn't decided that you didn't want to. You've nearly killed me!" She was angry, no tears forthcoming, only rage. She felt adrenaline coursing through her veins – it prompted her to shove against his chest, pushing him away.

He let her, seething. "You have done nothing to deserve kindness!"

"Kindness should not be 'deserved'! You claim to love me, you forced me to marry you and nearly forced me to bed you…and I don't deserve kindness?" She was beginning to get a heady sensation of power from her words and sudden freedom as he allowed her another step. "Let me tell you something." She bit off each word, "I'm tired of it! You treat me as an errant child one moment and a harlot the next, you hit me one moment and caress me moments later. I am so confused and mixed up and _sick of it_! Either choose something and stick with it, or leave me alone!" She turned away then, and ran – she knew her cloak was billowing around her and it only added to her sensation of strength.

She didn't hear footsteps as she went – which meant either he wasn't following her or he was doing so silently. Upon reaching the cold cavern, she chose to flee back to her room, curling up atop her bed, staring into space without much thought.

* * *

Queries came from everywhere in his mind. When had their roles reversed? When had Christine suddenly become so vindictively powerful and defiant?

She wanted him to choose one? Very well. He would choose one. And she wouldn't like it.

* * *

"Christine." The tone was sharp, not the usual tired call. She did not reply. "Christine. Get out here. Now."

"No." Christine muttered.

"You have to the count of three to get out here, before I come in there and make you come out here. With the Punjab."

A moment of thought, in which he counted to two, and Christine decided to obey him. Getting to her feet she slipped from behind the curtain just as he was reaching for his cloak – or more precisely, the Punjab within.

"So nice of you to join me my dear," He drawled, more than a little bit amused. She found her blood running cold as he smirked at her. "As you can see, I appear to have made my choice."

Christine swallowed and hovered near the curtain. "That's…good?" She had rather hoped he would choose the 'nice' offering, not 'naughty'.

"Not for you." Erik's smirk had widened and he swept his hand behind him, indicating a small table with two chairs that seemed to have arrived from nowhere. No meat was to be found atop it, but plenty of vegetables were present; except for cauliflower. "Take a seat."

"I'd rather not." She replied, ready to duck back into her room.

"Take a seat. Or the Punjab will insist upon it." Erik murmured; tone still smooth and dark.

Christine decided to take a seat. She sat primly, still in her nightgown, the cloak still wrapped about her shoulders. "Fine." She muttered petulantly.

"Why so sulky?" Erik bantered, almost playfully.

"…" Christine decided not to answer. He didn't seem to mind that and took his seat as well, indicating the neatly settled food.

"Enjoy." He slowly and deliberately took his share of the food, and lifting his fork with irritating polite neatness he took his bites, chewing thoroughly.

Christine stared at him in silence, before a hand darted out to snatch a lettuce leaf and she nipped it down. "Thank you for the _lovely_ dinner Erik, I'm leaving now." She started to get up and was startled when the Punjab fell about her, loosened enough that it slipped to her waist. She yanked her arms up just before he could tighten it, keeping them from being trapped. "Yeark!" Was her intelligent argument.

"Sit down." Erik murmured calmly, one hand holding the Punjab and the other lifting another dainty portion to his mouth.

Christine sat.

Erik, acting as though he were settled at a completely normal dinner affair, continued to eat sedately. She watched him for several long minutes before her stomach got the better of her and she was forced to delve into the food as well.

* * *

Dinner seemed to take a long time. Perhaps because she had a Punjab around her stomach…perhaps because he was so accursedly quiet…perhaps because the greens tasted funny. Whatever the reason, Christine felt they'd been at the rough-hewn table for hours.

"So, Christine." He murmured conversationally, finishing his plate and tapping his napkin to his lips with the supreme politeness he'd been displaying to the point of being eerie. "Would you like to dance?"

"No." She muttered in response, working absently at the Punjab.

"Whyever not?" His tone was light, still in that bantering mode.

"Because I don't like you and I don't want you touching me. Get this stupid rope off of me!"

"You're being very petulant. And it's not a _stupid rope_…It's a Punjab lasso." He replied, still in his light tone. Christine glared and he smirked, getting to his feet and pulling her up as well. "You _do_ know that you're dancing with me despite the fact that you seem to despise me, correct?"

"…You are a frustrating little pr-"

"Think about where that sentence is going, Christine. Is that word really _worth_ finishing?"

Now that she _thought_ about it…no. The insistent tugging at the lasso prompted her to her feet and she went unwillingly, but found herself somewhat at a disadvantage given that he was larger, stronger, faster, and more stubborn than she could be. Not to mention cruel, conniving, cold, and vicious.

"What is your favourite dance? Tango?" He let the Punjab loosen about her waist and fall, Christine stepped out of it and into his arms, where he spun her into a short tango, "Waltz?" A demonstration, "The two-step foxtrot?"

"The two-what whowhen?" Christine wondered as he spun her into a little rendition of that.

"Or perhaps something more…appropriate…for a married couple?" He spun her in his grasp, her back pressed to his chest, hands folded neatly across her stomach. Christine stopped breathing. One hand drifted to her waist and she attempted to pull away.

"You need some ice." Christine muttered, shocked to hear such an…off-colour…comment come from her own mouth.

"Perhaps I just need _you_." Erik countered with his usual rapier wit.

"Or … you… um…" Well, this was embarrassing. Without a sharp retort, Christine settled for wriggling against his grasp, which was far too convinient – one hand around her waist and the other on her hip made escape rather…difficult.

"Brilliant with words as always, Christine." Erik seemed about ready to break into hysterical laughter. This was something she had never heard from him.

One of his hands shifted a bit lower and she couldn't stand the danger anymore. Unable to think of anything terribly brilliant to attempt, she…poked him. Right in the side. "Did you just…poke me…again?" Erik wondered from behind her.

"Yes." Christine replied nonchalantly.

"Silly _mortal_." Erik murmured.

"Are you implying that you're not?" Christine retorted.

"Yes." He responded matter-of-factly, the hand on her lower abdomen drifting back upward, to her hair, where he fiddled absently with her curls. Christine felt rather uncomfortable. So she poked him again.

He tugged on her hair, "Knock that off." He chided lightly.

"Or what?" Christine replied, surprised to find her tone just as light as his.

"I'll throw you in the lake." Erik replied after a moment of deliberation.

"I'd freeze to death!" Christine cried.

"I could keep you warm." Erik crooned into her ear.

She made a face. "Must every comment be loaded with innuendo?"

"…Yes."

Erik continued to mess with her hair, attention wholly on the chocolate locks. Christine chose this time to twist away from him…and poke him.

True to his word, Erik darted forward, grasped her about the waist, and tossed her into the lake. To his surprise, however, her small hands grasped his shirt as she went and he found himself tumbling into the icy water as well.

Christine inhaled water and came up coughing, scrambling for the edge and leaping from the water. "Oh, wow. Cold." She breathed shivering violently. Her only cloak hung heavily about her shoulders and she let it drop, figuring it was retaining more water than her clothing itself and definitely _not_ helping the warming process.

Erik came up right about then, making a face. "Well, that is slightly more chilly than I'd originally thought. You're going to freeze. I'm a bit cold." He informed her of this before turning to her. When he did turn about, his jaw went slack. Christine blinked as he swam very slowly to the edge and slipped out, looking just as unruffled as ever. How _did_ he do that?

"I like your dress." He murmured politely.

Christine felt the blood drain from her face, and then replenish itself almost immediately. She snapped her gaze down and gasped. Alas, she had not changed out of her sleeping shift. She moved swiftly, grasping her cloak and pulling it around her like a … cloak.

Erik darted forward, grasping the cloak and pulling it away before she could get it settled. Christine gasped and shied away. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her close, his heavy cloak – waterlogged but strangely warm – falling around her. "I told you I'd keep you warm, Christine." He whispered.

She felt the blood in her face heating up all over again. A blush of dynamic proportions. Far above the useless 'cherry-cheeked look', this blush actually hurt.

"You're warm all of the sudden, Christine." Erik murmured.

"Am I?" She whispered, "I hadn't noticed." Her hands were safely in between her and Erik's body, which made for a nice and safe buffer. Until he grasped her hands and pulled them from in between them, wrapping them around his waist.

"You have a lot of muscle for being so tiny." Erik informed her.

"Where…did that come from?" Christine wondered.

"You're very stiff. You refuse to relax; that takes a lot of muscle." Erik sighed and let her go. Christine started to give a sigh of relief, but then she felt his hands on her neck. Not the neck itself, but the conjunction of the neck and shoulder. She stiffened all the more and he began a slow methodical movement of his fingers in one area, a massage. Christine stared into space for a while, and felt the muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxing of their own accord.

"Erik, stop that." She realized, when she started relaxing enough to drift off – even on her feet, that she needed to get his hands off of her.

"No." He murmured, and stubbornly continued his minstrations.

"Stop it!" Christine argued.

"Be quiet!" Erik snapped, his touch roughening. She writhed, trying to slip away. He seemed to lose his patience – which was not exactly a commodity he had plenty of to begin with.

"Erik, stop it!" Finally she broke free, just in time for him to grasp her arm and turn her about, pressing his lips to hers without warning. She closed her eyes, feeling his teeth pressing against her flesh with the ferocity of his kiss.

His hands ran down her back, pressing her furthur against him. Christine writhed to get free and he ignored the attempt, one hand freeing itself from her lower back and brushing up to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he kept her firmly in place for the rest of the kiss.

When he paused to let them take a breath she yanked away from him, ignoring the snapping hair as she disregarded the fact that he was holding her curls in his fist. "Let me go!" She broke free and made a dash for her room, shivering violently in the chilly air.

He had her in an instant, grasping her arms with his usual fierce grip. "Going somewhere?" He inquired, pulling her back into him.

Christine paused, glancing up at him. "Yes." She threw her elbow back, hitting his stomach, and the instant his grasp loosened she lunged forward. She got three steps before she heard the familiar whistle of the Punjab. It missed her by mere inches, and she ran more frantically for the room.

Once she dove through the curtain she pulled it shut and tried to lock it for a moment before she realized that it was, in fact, a curtain – not a door. She backed away from the thick maroon fabric, heart pounding frantically.

Her heart stuttered in her chest when Erik yanked the curtain aside, advancing on her and grasping her shoulders, backing her up until her knees hit the bed and she fell. Christine's breath caught as she struggled to roll away. He impatiently straddled her stomach once more and she gave up movement swiftly.

She was cold, numbingly so. Erik's presence did nothing to help that fact. She was terrified and sopping wet. His hands drifted along her cheeks, down her throat, and seperated back to her shoulders.

"You persist in demanding punishment, Christine." He murmured, "Why?"

"I don't!" She replied faintly.

"You would never act like this with Madame Giry, you-"

"_You_ are not Madame Giry. You are the man that spirited me away from my light and my friends and forced me to become your bride. _I _am not an errant child that you must 'punish'."

"You act like one." Erik whispered.

"You act like someone I would have refused to associate myself with long ago." Christine replied mercilessly.

"Perhaps." He smirked, "But who is the in the position of power right now?" He had a good point, and he knew it. Christine knew it, too.

She lost her temper and swung for his face, palm opened for a slap. He caught her wrist and twisted her arm down sharply, leaning into her. "That was extremely unintelligent, Christine." He breathed. "Perhaps it is time for us to consumate our marriage?"

Her heart stuttered once more in her chest and she shook her head violently. "No!" She pleaded.

"The day will come sooner or later, why not sooner?" Erik murmured.

"Because I'm not ready."

"You don't _want_ to be ready." He stroked her cheek, "But you are ready."

"No. I'm not."

"What if I didn't care? As your husband it is my god-given right." He still held her wrist in his bone-crushing grasp. His other hand left her face and traveled to her hip, stroking gently.

"Don't you dare." Christine arched away from his touch.

He was playing with her, she could see that now. He was trying to see how she would respond to his threats. Perhaps he truly wouldn't do anything to her until she wanted it, too.

"Come to an epiphany, did we?" He inquired mockingly at the look on her face.

"Erik, get off of me." Christine replied bravely.

"You are getting a bit too defiant for my tastes. Spirit is good, this is just irritating."

"And you haven't been irritating?"

His hand left her hip and returned to her throat, fingers ghosting across the skin. "No, I've been cruel – as you've so nicely stated over and over. And I'm not going to change. But _you_ are."

"And why is that?"

"Because," He leaned in, mouth beside her ear, "You're more afraid of me than I am of you."

Christine stared up at him as he backed off. He rose and left her on the bed, vanishing behind the curtain. After a moment, unable to resist, Christine called, "I want a lock for that curtain!"

A shattering plate was her response.


	7. Darkest Before Dawn

**My Dearest reader:**

**Our deepest apologies for Erik's behaviour. He doesn't wish to change…nor does Christine. They'll need to work this out to a mutually beneficial relationship. Please give them time.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

Maître

_Chapter Seven_

Darkest Before Dawn

* * *

Christine barely slept that night, she drifted off sometime early in the morning. She was awakened by fingers ghosting across her lips. Jerking away from them she tried to come swiftly to her wits, staring at Erik.

He was smiling at her. "Good morning." He murmured, "Today we're going to have a lesson." Christine wasn't sure whether this was _good_ or _bad_…she wasn't sure she knew what type of 'lesson' he was speaking of.

He waited expectantly and a bit impatiently for her response, and all Christine could manage was, "Oh…okay."

"And then," He grasped her hands and pulled her from the bed. Christine began to shiver violently the instant the air touched her still-damp skin, "We're going to have a nice meal, perhaps go outside for a bit, take a rest, sing, visit the Girys, and then we're going to eat dinner and go to bed."

Christine worked slowly through the information, her heart fluttering in her throat. She wasn't sure if she was awake. She would get to go outside _and_ see Meg? When had he suddenly switched tactics on her? "Are you serious?" She inquired mistrustfully.

"Have I lied to you yet?" Erik responded smoothly.

Christine contemplated that question. He'd been brutal, yes, but honest throughout it. Blatantly honest…sometimes a bit _too_ honest. "All right…" She breathed, "What's the lesson?"

He smiled, "I'm glad you asked." She gulped. "Here," He pressed something into her hands, the fabric was soft and heavy. "Put this on." He respectfully turned away and vanished from her room.

Christine tentatively shook the dress out, settled it on the bed, slipped her damp and clingy nightgown off, and pulled the daygown on. It was comfortable, and fit well. The neckline was rather low, but she put up with it in exchange for the warmth that the heavy fabric offered her. Her shivering receded and she brushed her fingers through her hair, pushing it behind her ears and shoulders.

So she was dressed, warm, and comfortable. Time to ruin it all. She stepped lightly to the curtain and opened it, slipping through and looking around for Erik nervously. He was settled in a chair, sitting in plain view. He head was rested upon his hand, which was gloved yet again.

Christine watched him for a bit, and when it became obvious that he was going to say nothing she took a step forward. Perhaps he hadn't noticed her arrival. Finally his eyes lifted, he seemed amused. "Bored?" She shook her head immediately. He smiled and stretched out his hand, "Come here." Christine paused, her usual hesitation, before walking slowly to his side.

His arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her into his lap. Christine let him, tired of fighting with him over every little thing. She sat still, staring away from him.

"Christine, what are you afraid of?" He inquired suddenly, the hand not wrapped around her waist stroking her knee.

She shifted uncomfortably, "You."

"Why?"

"We've been over this before." She murmured, "And you made a choice last night. That choice was to become an arrogant, dominant…_jerk_. Obviously I cannot trust you."

"Perhaps, when I can trust you, and when you return the feelings that burn in my soul with each breath I take, we will be happier together."

"Maybe when you give me a reason to return those feelings, I will."

"Well, my starlet…" He sat up straight then, and pressed his lips against her throat, "I can achieve that."

Christine felt a familiar feeling. It was unexpected, she never _wanted_ to feel it. But every time he touched her, continued his stubborn advances, she felt a fluttering in her lower abdomen that hadn't been there moments before. She gasped quietly and arched away from him.

He smirked at her. Obviously he had caught the shiver before she'd tried to escape. "Why do you deny me, and turn away from true beauty?" He whispered, leaning forward once more, pressing his lips against her bare shoulder. Christine shifted uncomfortably, she was one of the few girls at the Opera House who had believed strongly in propriety. She'd stubbornly decided to keep herself a virgin until…a jolt echoed in her frenzied mind…she was married. She _was_ married. Did that mean that she could…no.

Christine refused to allow her virtuousness to be corrupted by this cold creature…who was stroking down her back. Like a cat, Christine had a very sensitive back. She couldn't stop herself when her eyes closed and a soft sigh escaped her throat at the tender motion. _No!_ Her mind shouted with a tremendous strength that Christine could never display herself.

She wrenched in his grasp, struggling to break free. He tightened his hold, fingers digging into her back. "Calm down; don't make this so difficult. I'm making an effort to be gentle with you, so _don't_ try my temper."

Christine's breath stuttered in her throat, and she fought for control over herself and the situation. His left hand pressed warningly against her thigh and she tried to calm herself and stay still. He _was_ being gentle, until she fought back. So if she stayed still, he wouldn't hurt her.

She took a deep breath, her panic fading. When she calmed his grip relaxed, and he resumed his stroking of her back. "You said…" Christine began after a few minutes of silence, "That there was supposed to be…a lesson."

He smirked, "You learned it."

"…What was it?"

"If you do as I say, no harm will come to you." He finally stopped petting her and moved his hands to her waist, a loose grasp. She stared at him for a long moment before she shrugged and twisted out of his grasp.

"When do we get to go outside?" He let her rise and came up with her; looking as unruffled as ever in a black suit with a dark maroon silk shirt and a black cravat.

"Right now, if that's what you desire my darling." He purred and slipped by her, grasping his cloak and throwing it around his shoulders.

"Let's go!" Christine cried, feeling a spark of life somewhere in her body. He reached out for her hand and she willingly proffered it to him, excitement tingling from her scalp to her toes.

Erik smiled at her and led her through a tunnel she'd never been down before, through several intricate passageways, up some stairs, down others, around so many bends that she began to grow dizzy, before they came aboveground at the exact place she'd escaped to last time.

"Here we are." He kept a tight grip on her hand and Christine was content to let him, taking a deep breath of clean, fresh air and tilting her face up. She marveled in things she'd grown so used to – the feel of sunlight on her face, wind rustling her hair.

* * *

The girl was easy to please. Erik found himself smiling at her obvious excitement as she bounced every which way; her grasp on his hand almost as tight as his was on hers. She was fairly glowing in the light.

This was for two reasons – first, she'd lost much of her colour in her time trapped in his lair and secondly because she was so flushed with pleasure. Erik felt his cold heart softening at her childish delight. Perhaps if he let her have treats like this more often, she would lose her hatred of him.

Sometimes he did still feel slightly guilty at forcing her to marry him. She could have run, certainly, but her deep-seated sense of honour and her utter terror of him had kept her right where he'd wanted her.

What had happened afterward…another regret. He would never have forgiven himself if he had taken her in anger. Tonight he planned to try again; if she stabbed his heart once more and shoved him away, he would return the next night. However, if her tiny shivers and tiny allowances of pleasure were any indication she was starting to succumb to him.

Completely succumb to him. That would be interesting.

Erik knew he needed to be gentle if he wanted her to give in to his advances, forcing her into anything did no good. All the same, sometimes he just lost his temper and his patience and wanted her, _needed_ her, so badly that for hours after she'd denied him, yet again, he felt like screaming and crying and hurting her all at once.

He seemed so in control, but he always had the feeling that the control was teetering at the edge of his fingertips. Christine had not seen true cruelty yet. She hadn't been in the face of his true rage. He got angry, yes, and it terrified her – but she had seen nothing yet. Hopefully she'd never push him that far. However, if she kept up her frustrating game of hard-to-get, -see, -touch, -have; he might lose it.

"Christine!" A shout pulled him from his musings and Erik released her hand, slipping into the shadows that would obscure him completely unless someone actually knew where he was.

* * *

"Christine!" She startled first at the voice and then at the suddenness with which her dark companion vanished from her side and sight.

She turned, and felt a hug envelop her. She also felt the crushing power of Erik's jealousy. _No, no, no_. She pleaded mentally with whoever had her in his grasp. "H-hello," She stammered weakly, shying back from the grasp, "Please let go."

The mystery man did so almost before she could finish the plea. Christine wasn't used to that. She smiled at the ground and then slowly looked up to see who she was facing.

He was blonde-haired and blue-eyed, fair skin smooth and shiny. He was dressed in a pair of black dress-pants, a white silk shirt, and a light blue cravat. She barely remembered him, a suitor from years ago who had moved away with his family before finishing his courtship of her. She'd never liked him much…he was _too_ nice.

"Hello, Christine!" He cried; his tone exuberant. She glanced around for Erik's elusive figure, but couldn't find him in the shadows.

"Good day, Geoff." She disliked his name, too. It didn't flow. _Not the way Erik's name does_. "I'm pleased to see you again."

"You have no idea how excited I am to see _you_ again! I have been awaiting the continuation of our courtship for quite some time now." He fairly glowed at her.

Christine worried the ring on her finger anxiously, looking around for Erik once more. She wasn't sure whether she wanted him to leave her alone or to come save her from this awkward situation. "Well, there's a problem with-"

He swept her into a spinning hug, ignored her protests and kissed her. Christine felt her heart just about stop. First – his kiss was dispassionate and uncomfortable, second – Erik was probably going to go insane with rage.

She shoved against Geoff's chest, finally making him release her with her determination and backing out of his arm's reach swiftly. "Geoff," She began sharply, "Listen to me." He blinked at her with his baby-blues, "I am _married_."

"You're married?" He looked about ready to cry, "But you were supposed to wait for me!"

"I never said I was waiting for you!" Christine replied, startled.

"It was an unspoken agreement that passed between us on the day I left!"

"_When?_" Christine inquired, stunned by the ridiculous notion.

"When I waved and you waved and we shared that…look." He smiled dreamily.

Christine found herself wanting to gag. After so long under Erik, she found that the over-romance that she normally would have gone to cooing wordlessness over was now making her slightly ill.

She shook her head and then felt a cold hand wrap around her waist. She froze and glanced to her side, at Erik. He was glaring hot fire at Geoff, not at her. Perhaps he knew it wasn't _her_ fault. She hoped so.

"Good day, sir. I see you've met my _wife_ before?" He stressed 'wife' with a pointed tone and Geoff didn't get it.

"Oh, she's your wife? I was going to have her for mine. Any way of my convincing you to take something else in exchange?" It was meant to be a joke. Erik bared his teeth at him and Christine winced.

Trying to avoid any type of blood-shed involving Geoff dying – she didn't like the guy but would rather not see him Punjabbed – Christine pressed closer to Erik wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek into his chest. "I doubt it." She replied to Geoff lightly, leaning against Erik as though it were normal for her to initiate close contact.

His arm around her waist tightened and his other hand drifted up to stroke her curls. Christine felt the now-familiar shiver race through her at his touch and her eyes closed of their own accord.

"I see." Geoff sounded somewhat sad, but resigned to his fate. "Well then. My dearest Christine I bid you adieu." She opened her eyes and watched as he bowed slightly to them both and walked away.

Christine waited for him to be completely out of sight before she loosened her grip on Erik. He was staring after Geoff with a blank expression. After a moment he looked down. "Crafty." He murmured.

She shook her head, "I wasn't planning anything. I just wanted him to see that we were married and there was no 'exchange'." That had been insulting and demeaning to her. Erik looked sulky for a moment before he smiled at her.

"Shall we go and take a rest before we sing?" He inquired lightly.

Christine started to say no, but was startled when she realized that she _was_ tired and _did_ want to get a little bit of rest. "Okay." She whispered. Erik inclined his head and kept his arm about her waist, the grip loosened, leading her back through the complicated pattern that led back to the cavern.

Upon reaching it, Erik kept his grip and led her straight to her room, sitting both of them on her bed. Christine decided not to argue as he laid both of them on the mattress, pulling the coverlet at the bottom of the bed up to settle lightly atop them both. He kept his arms wrapped around her. After a minute of stillness, Christine let her eyes drift shut.

Erik shifted when he finally decided that she wasn't going to struggle free, letting one arm drift from her waist to her head, stroking her hair – something he did a lot of. Christine pressed her forehead against his chest and breathed deeply, committing his scent to memory.

* * *

Christine didn't remember when she fell asleep, but she found herself waking to fingers gliding across her cheek. Scrunching her nose for a moment, she opened her eyes and locked gazes with Erik's stunning green eyes.

"Welcome back." He smiled, "Go ahead and get a drink of water, and then we'll sing for a while before we meet the Girys. All right?"

_Meet them? As in, a planned meeting?_ Christine nodded quickly and got to her feet, scrambling to the water pitcher across the room and drinking several gulps of water to wet her throat and quench her sudden thirst.

Erik was waiting for her at his piano when she finished and exited the room, settling her curls into place. "We'll warm up," He said – tone all business, "Then we'll sing a few songs."

It made sense, given that it was what they always did. She knew better than to say anything of the sort, however. He was in his teaching mode now. Christine didn't mess with the teacher. "Yes, Master." She nodded and came to stand by the piano – still too fearful to actually touch it.

"Low to high." He began to play, fingers dancing over the keys. Christine closed her eyes and began to warm up with each note, hoping she'd hit them all – she hated to disappoint him by hitting a cacophonous tone.

Their warming session was over quickly, Christine only hit a few discordant notes which Erik swiftly corrected with his usual patient but sharp tone. He reached for a thin sheaf of papers, settling them in front of him with his usual perfection. "Your words are on top." They were always on top; she didn't know why he insisted on pointing out each time.

"Okay." She replied patiently and read them over swiftly, gaze snapping back to the beginning as his fingers began their dance once more. "_In sleep he sang to me…/ In dreams, he came…/ That voice, which calls to me…/ And speaks, my name…/ And do I dream again/ For now, I find…/ The **Phantom** of the **Opera** is there…/ Inside my mind._"

He always came in so seamlessly, "**Sing once again, with me…/Our strange, duet…/My power over you…/Grows stronger yet…/And though you turn from me…/To glance behind…**" She had an inexplicable urge to look away from him, but she was too busy staring at his face, mesmerized by his voice, "**The _Phantom_ of the _Opera_ is there…/ Inside, your mind…**"

She came in a bit late and stumbled to catch up, "_Those-who-have-seen…/ Your face, draw back in fear…/ I am the mask you wear…_"

"**It's me they hear.**"

"**_MyYour Spirit and yourmy voice, in one combined…/ The _**Phantom**_ of the _**Opera**_ is there…/Inside myyour mind…_**"

Christine felt her heart began to pound as she neared a section she was uncertain of. She could see the height of the notes and wasn't sure she'd be able to make him proud. "_He's there…/ The **Phantom** of the **Opera**…_" She took a deep breath, "_Ahhh…ah-ah-ah…ah-ah…ah-uh-ahhhh…_"

"**Sing, my angel of music.**" Erik prompted lyrically.

"_Ahhh-oh-uh-ah, ahhh-ahhh-ahhhhh…_" She was reaching her limit already.

"**Sing, my _Angel_**_…_"

Christine pressed herself further, "_Ahhhh-ahh-ah-ahhh-ah-ahhhh-ahhhhhh…_"

"**Sing, for me!**"

Her throat burned, "_Aaaahhhhhhhhhh_…_Ah-ah-ahhhh-uh-uh-ahh-uh-ahhh…_"

"**Sing, my _Angel_, Sing for _me_!**"

"_Aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!_" Christine had never hit a note so high in her entire life. Her throat burned, her cheeks ached, her heart throbbed painfully in her chest and she felt faint when she finally let it fade away, eyes shut tightly.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her to his chest in a hug that was tight enough to border on painful. "You did it!" He cried breathlessly, "You finally did it!"

"Did…what?" Christine rasped weakly, eyes still shut tightly.

"You finally touched upon your true potential. _That_ note was the type of note you should be hitting all of the time." His praise was pure and practically shouted.

"It hurt." She admitted.

"It will for a while." He smiled, "But since when has pain stopped _you_ from anything?" That loaded comment finished, he let her go, "We're done for today. Come, we will visit the Girys."

Christine grasped his hand and let him lead her through the tunnels, chest heaving as she tried to regain her composure and breath. She was glowing with pride at his praise, startled at how much pleasure she could glean from such small words.

They reached the Girys just as she finally managed to even her breathing and recall her voice. Meg and the Madame were waiting for them; obviously this meeting was a scheduled one. Christine ran to her blonde friend the instant she caught sight of her and the two hugged tightly.

"I missed you, Christine." Whispered her high-pitched little friend.

"You have no idea how much I've missed being with someone I can trust." Christine breathed faintly in response, her words whispered into Meg's neck as she closed her eyes with relief at feeling the touch of someone she trusted completely.

"Antoinette." Erik offered politely by way of greeting to Madame Giry before he slipped back into the passage. Christine heard the opening close and blinked in surprise. He wasn't going to hover obsessively?

"Erik?"

"Yes?" He inquired from the other side of the door.

"Just checking." Christine went to Madame Giry next, hugging the older woman – to the surprise of everyone in the room – and feeling tears in her eyes.

"I see he hasn't killed you yet." Madame Giry offered by way of greeting when she'd overcome the shock of Christine's display of affection.

"Not yet." Christine half-smiled, "Not for lack of trying. I sort of gave him an ultimatum which made him mad and now he's kinda…mean…but he hasn't hurt me too badly. He's frightening, but as long as I do what he says he doesn't – hey!"

Meg examined Christine's left hand, which she'd snatched. "You are wearing a wedding ring, Christine." She whispered.

Madame Giry's face paled. "You're marrying him?"

"We're already wed." Christine whispered.

"Already wed…did he hurt you?" Meg murmured, still holding Christine's hand in a death-grip.

"Hurt me?" Christine inquired. Hadn't they already covered that?

"You know…" Meg prompted, "When he-"

"No!" Christine cut her off, feeling a blush colouring her face at her best friend's crudeness. "No, we haven't done anything and he hasn't hurt me."

"So…he hasn't tried to…consummate the marriage?" Meg inquired curiously.

"He's tried…" Christine blushed more, looking away shyly.

"Meg Giry, get your mind from the gutter and drop that topic this instant!" Madame Giry snapped at the blonde, who let a small blush of shame brush her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Christine, my curiosity got the better of me." She leaned in, making sure her mother could not hear, "Besides, you don't have the flush of a girl who's bedded for the first time."

"MEG!" Christine laughed, blushing violently. "You brat!" She shoved the blonde away, giggling as her friend shoved back, sending her reeling into the wall. "You cheated! No fair!" She shoved back.

"Girls," Madame Giry scolded, "Either you, Meg, are going to break an ankle or you, Christine, are going to break something fragile; like that vase behind you. Knock it off."

The girls giggled themselves into silence again, and once they'd calmed they looked at each other. The moment their eyes met they dissolved into giggles again. Madame Giry shook her head, "I shall never understand you two." She smiled.

"You probably weren't meant to." Erik observed lightly, entering from the tunnel once more. "Come, Christine, it is time to leave."

"We were only here for a little bit!" Christine argued, "And it's not even dark out! Please, a little longer?"

He shook his head and she felt tears fill her eyes. He seemed to notice the response and sighed. "Very well. Until sundown." He vanished once more into the passageway.

"…Did I…just…win an argument?" Christine wondered aloud, stunned.

"This isn't common?" Meg inquired, blinking. The brunette shook her head quietly and smiled.

"But I won this time, so we get a bit more time together! Tell me, what Operas have been performed?"

"Oh, goodness, you should see what Carlotta did to the latest…" They were off, chatting and gossiping and ranting.

Madame Giry watched on in silence, worried for the pallour of Christine's skin and the dullness of her eyes – even speaking with Meg did little for the dimming spark of spirit there.

* * *

"The sun has set, Christine." Interrupted her conversation. Blinking, she lifted her head and glanced at a window, finding that his words were true. She felt her heart sink – but one argument was luck, two was pushing that luck.

"Okay." She acquiesced, knowing he would give her no choice, "May we visit them again soon?"

"Perhaps." Erik's fingers brushed down her cheek and then he took her hand, helping her from the floor where she'd sat with Meg. "Farewell, Madame and Mademoiselle Giry." A polite bow as he led Christine through the passage.

"Good night, Meg. I'll see you soon. Sleep well, Madame Giry." She watched with a breaking heart as her friends were sealed away from her yet again by the door.

"Perhaps we'll visit again next week." Erik stated suddenly as he led her down the hall. Christine felt her heart piece itself back together, pleased by the prospect. Immediately she began to look forward to this meeting.

She walked lightly behind him on the way back to the cavern, not slowing him in the least. He seemed heartened by that, and hummed one of his songs as he led her to the cavern and settled her at the table. Christine watched as he presented her with spaghetti…minus the meat in the sauce.

"Why do you never eat meat?" She inquired as he portioned the meal.

"I am a vegetarian." He seemed pleased that she'd asked a question about him. Christine realized that she really didn't know much about him. When he'd taken as well, she settled a quick grace on the meal in the silence of her mind, and began to eat with him, the quiet less strained than usual.

When she'd finished, Christine rose. "I'm going to get ready for bed." She offered, escaping into her room. She carefully undid the gown's corset, having a hard time with the ties but managing it. It was much easier to get the cursed thing on than to get it off. She reached for her nightgown, and gasped when cold hands helped her slip into it.

Spinning, she clutched at the front, the undone ties dangling loosely. Erik smiled at her and she swallowed her terror, "I…didn't know you'd come in." She explained, glad she hadn't screamed.

"You weren't supposed to. I like to make you startle." He smiled at her, almost playfully.

Christine returned the smile weakly, still clutching the nightgown. Erik reached out for her and she flitted just out of his reach, eyes wide. He chuckled lightly and moved for her again, this time snatching her before she could dance away once more. "Are you ready tonight, my wife?"

She shook her head vehemently. He pressed forward, which tripped her and she sat unsteadily on the bed. His eyes danced across her bare shoulders as the nightgown slipped and she felt a blush, shying away even more.

"Are you sure, Christine?" He grasped her hands, pulling them to his mouth and kissing each one, looking almost as startled as she when her nightgown fell open. She tried to turn away, her blush deepening. "Why flee?" He inquired, "You're perfect. Nothing to hide."

"Take off your mask." She snapped, voice oddly aggressive for her current situation.

Erik, startled, replied with a sharp, "No."

"Now you know how I feel." She yanked her hands away and gathered her nightgown, hiding her flesh from him once more as she turned away, sitting with her legs tucked underneath her on the bed, facing away from him.

He knelt behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, "Very well." He kissed her right cheek, trailing down to her throat, to the edge of her shoulder, and back up. Christine felt her breath hitch with her sudden fright and he frowned against the skin of her cheek.

"Why are you frightened of? I'm not hurting you; I'm not forcing you into anything. All I'm doing is showing you what you're missing."

Christine shrugged a bit, "I…I'm sorry, Erik. I don't mean to be so difficult. I just…I'm…I want to go to bed."

He smirked against her flesh, apparently amused by her weak change of topic. "Shall I join you?" Christine knew he was stunned when she nodded to his question. Of course, he wasn't going to argue. So he waited for her to brush her hair and wash her face, then let her lay down and make herself comfortable before he lay beside her, one arm circling her stomach protectively, the other by her face, fingers idly alternating between running through her curls and stroking her cheek.

Christine fell asleep that night feeling oddly safe.


	8. Limits

**My Dearest Reader:**

**Erik wishes to correct a most grievous mistake of which we are at fault for. He insists that he plays an organ; not a piano. We apologize for that. Erik has also chosen to make clear our error in stating 'ahria' instead of 'aria'; once more, we give our deepest regrets. Finally; Miss Daaé's name has been misspelled throughout the bulk of this story – again we apologize for this mistake. Anything else we may have made a mistake with; such as scales and the like; we express apologies. We also thank you fondly for your continued support.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

**Maître**

_Chapter Eight_

Limits

* * *

Christine awoke alone the next morning, tucked neatly under the covers. She took her time getting up, stretching leisurely, and looked around for Erik. He didn't materialize, so she made her way over to the gown he'd given her yesterday – a fugitive item from the costume room, no doubt.

Untying her sleeping shift, Christine looked around once more. Then she slipped the white fabric off and folded it neatly, pulling on her chemise and underskirts. Safely in at least a thin layer of clothing, she relaxed. Next, Christine put on her corset and began to lace it.

The lacing of the corset took much longer than Christine would have liked, but it was quite difficult to do properly alone and she tied it incorrectly several times before getting it right. Then she pulled the dress on, lacing the ties much more nimbly than she'd done on the corset.

Feeling neat and orderly and in control, Christine ran her fingers through her hair and made her way into the main room. A piece of parchment caught her searching eyes immediately and she went to it, peering at the words.

_Dearest Christine,_

_I've gone out to check my snares and get some supplies. I trust you to stay put; I shall be back soon enough. I expect you to be waiting._

_Fondest regards,_

_Erik_

She sighed faintly, wondering when he'd written the note. Didn't the Opera Ghost have the common courtesy to date and time his letters? Of course not.

Christine shifted anxiously, wondering what she was going to do with herself. Perhaps she'd go back to bed…no. It had taken far too much effort to put on the corset, and she most assuredly wasn't going to lay down with the thing constricting her lungs.

What to do, then?

For lack of anything else, Christine absently began to tidy the cavern.

* * *

Hours upon hours had passed; it was actually growing darker in the cave. This either meant the candles were all going out at once, or she'd awoken later than she'd meant to. Christine had tried to read – but found herself rather unable to find a book that she was interested in. Most of his collection consisted of intricate philosophical works that Christine couldn't, for the life of her, grasp the concepts of. Especially Socrates' The Forms…that one really made her head hurt.

Bored and lonely, Christine felt curiosity beginning to touch her senses. Surely it wouldn't hurt if she did a little bit of exploring? Getting to her feet, she put the book on Epicureanism she was thumbing through back on the shelf and ventured to the curtains.

Employing the age-old process of 'Eeny-meeny-miney-mo', Christine chose the second curtain to her left and slipped through it. She was met with a hall, a very dimly lit one. She moved down it cautiously, on alert for any spiders that might decide to visit her. Choosing at random one of the doors, Christine turned the handle and slipped inside, leaving the door open behind her.

She was in a bedroom, Christine didn't find that terribly odd. What she found mildly frightening was the presence of a large coffin to one side of the room, its lid open. Her gaze wandered from the wooden creation to a large table. Drawings and musical scores and pencils and candles lay scattered around the desk in organized disarray.

Moving to the desk, Christine peered at the artwork. She saw sketches of herself – sleeping, crying, staring serenely…it was as though he'd drawn every moment of her life. It occurred to her, dimly, that this was Erik's room. Christine didn't dwell on it.

She noticed something glinting underneath the papers so she pushed them aside a bit, making sure she could put them right back in order, and a small gasp escaped her lips. Christine shuddered involuntarily, staring at the syringe that glinted maliciously at her. It was empty, but remnants of a semi-clear liquid could be seen inside.

Christine had seen that liquid before, and knew it to be morphine. Why would Erik have an empty syringe of morphine on his desk? She brushed more papers aside and more syringes came into view, some empty and some not. Christine felt numbly horrified. Did he realize what he was doing to himself?

She lifted one of the full syringes, staring at it as though it could explain Erik's behaviour to her.

If the cold metal and glass creation could not, the owner could.

A familiar thinly fingered hand grasped the syringe, pulling it from her suddenly limp fingers. "I must ask why you're in my room, my dear." Erik murmured icily from behind her, "Touching what is most certainly not yours to touch."

Christine could feel him behind her; terribly close. "I'm sorry." She whispered, "I was lacking for something to do, and was exploring…I didn't mean to invade."

"Bored, are you?" He grasped her waist, pulling her with him from his room. His grip was not gentle, but he was not crushing her with his arms or throwing her about…yet. "Perhaps I can solve that." Christine was dimly aware, as she was half-carried to her room, that the sun must have set during her exploration.

"W-what are you doing?" She asked weakly as he set her down.

"I'm giving you something to do." He hissed. He was dangerous. Christine realized how furious he was; instead of shouting he was acting perfectly calm. It was like the dog that didn't bark…thousands of times more dangerous and frightening than one that did.

"You're frightening me." She whispered.

"I believe you're about to be more frightened." He seemed almost amused by this. Christine longed to run from him…but he stood in the way, blocking the entrance, so she didn't even bother – it would only raise his temper all the more.

"Please calm down, Erik," Christine pleaded, "I didn't realize I was invading. I won't do it again."

"You're right. You won't."

"You never said I shouldn't!" Christine cried faintly.

"I didn't realize you'd suddenly decide to go exploring." Erik countered. "Must I think of every possibility beforehand? Can't you make a decision without my telling you what decision to make?"

That was unfair. Christine glared at him; he smirked at her – evil, dangerous. Why was he so upset?

He moved forward then, grasping her waist with one hand and her chin with the other, pulling her to him and pressing his lips to hers in a hungry kiss that gave no quarter. She squeaked but didn't fight him; figuring once he got out his aggression he'd calm. He delved deeper, forcing his way into her mouth, refusing to let her come up for air. Christine was nearly blue by the time he gave her a rest and she panted for oxygen.

"I think tonight's the night, Christine." Erik grinned at her and she felt her heart flutter. '_We _are_ married…_' Her mind chose to mention. She shook her head, denying him and the voice. His grin widened, "I'm afraid I'll have to insist."

"Are you trying to punish me?" Christine snapped.

He paused for a moment, mulling over her words. "No, I wouldn't do this to punish you. I'm doing it because it is my right and I'm tired of waiting."

Christine's blood drained from her cheeks.

He caught her up again in another passionate kiss, this one less intense, and let her go in good time. Christine gasped for air as he drifted down her throat and collarbone, trying to push him away and at the same time rather wanting him to continue. He released her quite suddenly, spinning her about. "Hands on the table." Stunned, Christine obeyed his command without question, and felt his hands on her back.

He untied the dress first, pushing it out of his way before attacking the ties of the corset. Each time he tugged at it, the corset tightened a bit. Before long Christine was gasping for air. "Stop – that!" She panted, trying to pull away from him; hands drifting back to show him how to remove it without killing her.

"Table!" Erik snapped and she groaned faintly, putting her hands back on the table, using her arms to keep her up as her knees tried to buckle. She was growing dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Quite suddenly there was a whistling of wind and the corset released. Christine remained stock-still, rather stunned, as he set a dagger on the table. Why was he carrying around a dagger? His voice was harsh, "You will not wear a corset again."

What was with him and the orders? Christine, however, had the presence of mind not to argue with what was a very good idea. She'd always hated those things. Erik slipped her corset and her dress away from her and Christine let him, still mostly dressed in the thin fabric of her chemise and underskirts.

"Are you frightened, Christine?" His voice was suddenly very gentle. Christine swallowed hard, more frightened of the sudden change in his demeanor than what he was trying to force her into. She nodded. Something cold pressed against the side of her throat. "I can fix that."

She dimly saw the morphine syringe; he hadn't put it down before dragging her from the room. She gave a stunned half-gasp, shying from it. "No!" She cried immediately.

"So I suppose you're not all that scared, then." He seemed amused, but didn't try to attack her with the needle; instead he neatly put it down on the table and stepped away from her. Christine felt herself give a tiny sigh of relief. He ignored her, painstakingly removing his cloak, his gloves, his shirt, his boots and socks, and his belt. Christine stared at him numbly.

He smiled at her, coming to stand before her once again. Christine stared up at him wide-eyed. Erik reached out, taking her hand and placing it on his chest. "See, I'm just as you are." He murmured, and she was mildly confused but fascinated by the feel of his skin, "I'm only a man."

Christine shook her head slowly, wanting to pull her hand away but marveling at how warm his skin suddenly felt to her fingertips. He hummed to her – she felt it vibrate in his chest and couldn't help her smile – stroking her cheek. Then he led her to the bed, sitting with her. Christine relaxed a bit, and he seemed more than a bit heartened by that.

His frightening anger and coldness had diminished; he seemed to be trying not to rush her, trying to be extra gentle. She felt her hand moving of its own accord, fingertips skimming his skin. He seemed amused by that and after a bit caught her hand, stopping her exploration on his muscled abdomen.

"Are you ticklish, Christine?" His tone was extremely innocent. _Too_ innocent.

"I…" She considered lying, but even over something so small she was frightened of angering him. "Yeah. I am."

A wicked grin lit his features and Christine had enough time to yelp and half-turn before he was on her, hands attacking her sides and throat at once. She wriggled desperately, tears of mirth in her eyes as she finally managed to face him, struggling against his hands, and attacked his sides as well.

"No – fair!" She gasped, laughing as she tried to tickle him and push him off at the same time. He caught her hands, expertly deflecting them out to the sides, which left her stomach open as well. Christine gave a muffled shriek, and tried to crawl away. Erik was on her in a split second, pinning her with his body and mercilessly attacking her collarbone. "Stop – it!" Christine wailed, hardly able to speak through her laughter.

Erik didn't stop until several minutes later, when she'd finally given up trying to escape and just lay under him, laughing. He smirked down at her, and Christine noticed that her chemise had loosened. She suspected he had something to do with that.

"Tired already?" Erik inquired smugly.

"Yes." Christine replied nonchalantly, rolling onto her side underneath him, curling a bit.

Erik grasped her shoulder and rolled her back over, lying a bit more heavily atop her. "Now, now. We're just getting started." He murmured into her ear.

Christine remembered then what he was planning to do with her that night and her mirth faded instantaneously. He seemed to notice her sudden change in demeanor, but he said nothing.

Lifting himself off of her, Erik grasped her shoulder and turned her over – Christine went with the motion, feeling safer on her stomach. He sat down, straddling her thighs with incredible balance. She shifted uncomfortably, but he ignored that and after a moment she felt his hands on her back.

Obviously he'd remembered how sensitive her back was, and he stroked down the length of her spine gently. Christine couldn't help her natural reaction, arching toward his fingers. She _heard_ his amused grin, but he didn't stop. Her eyes drifted shut of their own accord and she felt a blush across her cheeks.

* * *

Was she _purring_? Erik had never seen someone react so much to a touch on their back. She was so shy, but all the same she was arching into his hands, head thrown back in pleasure.

He experimented with her, amused by the different reactions his touch could produce. Christine had always amused him.

He stopped petting her, and was surprised to hear a groan of displeasure from her, and she glanced at him over her shoulder – a most demanding look. Erik felt another of his smirking grins across his face as he turned her face away and returned to her back.

She was so bloody _cute_.

* * *

Christine felt him untie her chemise and slip it off, but she couldn't find the energy to care. She could only sense the pleasure of his petting her back. Since she was on her stomach, being stripped of the blouse wasn't a travesty.

Dimly, in the back of her mind, Christine realized what he was doing – but she couldn't process it properly yet. She didn't wholly grasp the concept until her skirts were quite suddenly gone.

Startled, Christine took a sharp breath and struggled away from Erik, scampering across the bed. He frowned at her as she hid behind a pillow. "You really needn't hide, my dear." He comforted.

Christine shook her head, flushing. "Let me be. I'm tired. I want to sleep." She pleaded.

"I've let you alone for several days after our wedding. You really must get over this fear." Erik murmured, "After all; you're not afraid to go through my quarters, why does this frighten you?"

Christine felt tears burn her eyes. Erik reached out, pulling her from the pillows, setting her upon his lap. She tried to pull away but he kept her firmly in place, chin resting atop her head. He wasn't looking at her, which was comforting, he had her sitting with her back facing the rest of the room, and he stroked it patiently.

She didn't understand why Erik refused so blithely to just give it up. Surely he couldn't really be _that_ lusting, could he?

"I love you, Christine." He said suddenly, as if answering her question. She was startled and would have raised her head to stare at him if he'd not been keeping it down with his own.

"But I don't love you." She whispered.

"**Fear can turn to love.**" He murmured suddenly, his voice lyrical, "**You'll learn to look – to see the man behind the monster.**"

"Monster?" Christine inquired faintly.

He let her go now that she was calm again, but she made no effort to crawl from his lap – it was much more comforting than sitting in the open unclothed. He didn't try to move her, seeming content to let them sit for now.

She was quiet for a bit, suddenly, "Take off your mask?"

"No." He snapped immediately.

Christine tried not to be intimidated; which was extremely difficult. "Please, Erik. Take off your mask."

"Why is that so important to you?" He inquired – his voice still aggressive.

"You're hiding from me." She explained quietly. His momentary confusion was obvious in his long silence. Finally, she watched one of his hands reach up. When it came back down, his mask was clutched in it.

"There."

Christine wriggled until he lifted his head and she raised her eyes to meet him. His face really was rather startling.

She could see strange whitish patches that she was pretty sure were patches of skull glinting in the candlelight. His cheek was twisted as though it had been burned, the flesh raw and seeming almost too loose. Erik's right eye was sunken into his skull and stared out at her in a manner that suggested it was very close to being a blind eye. His eyebrow didn't exist, and his upper lip was twisted and distorted as though that one side had been separated from his face, stretched out a bit, and then pasted messily back on…by a three-year-old.

Erik frowned at her, as though he was non-plussed by her examination of his face. "There." His voice was harsh suddenly and Christine looked away from his anger. His hands grasped her face, yanking her about to face him. "What, now you can't stand to look upon the loathsome gargoyle?"

"No, it's not that-" Christine began.

He was not paying attention to her. His eyes were fiery, his grasp on her face firm. "Can't stand the thought of what you got yourself into?"

"Listen to me, Erik!" Christine cried, trying to speak over him, "It's not that – your face does not bother me!"

"Don't lie!" He snarled, "You're disgusted!"

"If your face disgusted me, why would I request to see it?" Christine whispered.

That gave him pause, and he half-smiled. "A good point." He was quite suddenly gentle and happy again, stroking from Christine's cheeks to her throat and back up again. He pressed a kiss to Christine's forehead and then pulled her close to his chest again.

Christine shivered and he seemed to realize that she was unclothed on his lap and the lair wasn't getting any warmer. Standing without warning – ignoring her half-yelp of protest – Erik carried her around the bed and laid her in her usual place. Christine closed her eyes automatically, hoping he would go away. The blankets lay neatly folded down at her feet.

Erik settled onto the bed beside her, leaning over her. Christine kept her eyes shut. He rolled her over, and she immediately yanked away from him, curling a bit to hide herself as she opened her eyes. Again he pulled her back over, grasp firm as he kept her where she was. "You don't need to hide from me." He admonished powerfully. Christine struggled to roll away, a blush rising on her cheeks. "Christine." Erik snapped sharply, "We are married."

"I don't care. I don't want to!" She snapped, knowing she sounded childishly petulant.

"Christine. I'm beginning to lose the ability to _worry_ about whether or not you want to." Erik hissed into her face.

She wanted to cry and scream and hit him all at once. His hands ventured from her shoulders then, running down her sides and coming to rest on her abdomen. "Perhaps I can make you want to."

"No, stop it, Erik." Christine pleaded faintly.

"What are you so terrified of? I'm not hurting you!" His temper was flaring again.

"I don't know." Christine whispered, tears filling her eyes. She closed her eyes immediately, tears trembling on her eyelashes but not falling.

"Well, that's not a good enough reason." He kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders, and was going to go lower but Christine fought, trying to escape. He gave a growl of frustration and swung himself over her, pinning her down with his full weight. She gave a whimper of pain as he crushed her to the bed, and he pressed his lips to her throat, soothing her. She still fought him, but her attempts were unproductive.

"I hate you!" She shouted suddenly, voice ringing about the cavern. "_I hate you!_"

"Hate and love are very similar, my dearest, and I'll take either from you." He whispered against the flesh of her throat. He bit her then, eliciting a yelp. The bite was a warning, a pressing of teeth. "And do not shout like that, you'll ruin your pianissimo."

"Please stop…" She whispered.

"No. I've stopped already; I've stopped more than I've ever wanted to. I've tried to be patient, but it's time for you to start fulfilling the God-given duty of a wife."

"I thought you didn't believe in God." Christine whispered numbly, beginning to doubt her own belief – what kind of all-loving deity would abandon her to the hands of this merciless man?

"_I_ don't…but _you_ do." Erik murmured, shifting his weight suddenly. The crushing pressure eased and Christine relaxed the slightest bit.

She couldn't resist the comment, "You weigh a bit more than you seem to."

"Muscle weighs more than fat." Erik replied smoothly – everything the man did was smooth.

"Are you sure?" She tried to drag him into a contest of words, but he was unmoved by her attempt. His hands found their way to her abdomen – another intensely sensitive part of her anatomy – and she shivered as he caressed her chilled skin.

"Quite sure. Just as I am in everything. Now; are you going to help me with my trousers or am I on my own?"

Christine turned several different shades of red, choking momentarily. "I-I… be-believe y-you're on y-your own." She stammered, nearly fainting with relief when he lifted himself from her.

"It seems that way." He agreed, rising and ridding himself of his pants. Christine flat-out refused to look at him. She heard him sigh. "Curse your innocence. Quit being so stubborn. We are legally married in the eyes of the state and your god; therefore it is wholly acceptable for us to do this. I'd really rather not force you."

"I'd rather that, too. Lets save it for another night." Christine suggested hopefully.

"You are growing repetitive."

"So are you."

"Ah, but I'm much more handsome about it." He chose the moment when her jaw dropped at his comment to kiss her again, his tongue having full access to her mouth. Christine wanted to bite him, but figured that it would probably make things much more difficult than they needed to be.

In fact…all-in-all this was terribly awkward. Christine was bloody ready to start screaming at him the instant he gave her a chance to get a breath…which might have been why he didn't give her a breath.

The instant he let her go she started to draw a breath to shout but his mouth descended on her again, pressing her back into the pillows, just as breathless as always. Christine could have pitched a tantrum.

He let up again, and once more Christine readied herself to shout – again he gave her barely enough time to get half a breath before crushing his lips against hers once more, his teeth pressing against the now-tender flesh of her lips.

When he released her for the third time Christine snapped her head to the side so he couldn't repeat his gesture, gasping for air. His right hand drifted to her stomach, his left hand to her hair. "Let's sleep." He whispered.

Christine could have cried. "Okay." She whispered, the tenseness of her muscles fading. Erik reached down for the blankets, pulling them up and tucking the both of them in, wrapping his arms firmly about her stomach.

She found that she didn't mind sleeping wrapped in his embrace; it was comforting. As long as he wasn't trying to force himself upon her she found his presence made her feel secure.


	9. Burn

**My Dearest Reader:**

**Our fondest regards to those of you who have lasted this long in the story. Enjoy. To satisfy those who wish to see a bit of a change; we have written this.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

**Maître**

_Chapter Nine_

Burn

* * *

Everything burned when Christine awoke. She felt as though she'd been pressed to a candle. Groaning faintly she opened her eyes and realized that her vision was blurred. Biting back a whimper, Christine sat up. Erik was gone – which was quite a relief. Getting slowly to her feet, rocking a bit on her balance, Christine gathered her fallen clothing – except for the corset – and dressed.

When she was safely wrapped in her clothing, Christine slowly came from the bedroom. Her throat was raw, her cheeks burned, and her vision refused to return to normal. She was colder than usual, so cold her bones ached.

Erik was at his organ, playing it softly – obviously not wanting to wake her. Christine clutched at any firmly grounded objects, dizzy. When she got to Erik's side she couldn't stay on her feet any longer and dropped onto the bench beside him.

"Good morning." Erik greeted warmly. She nodded silently. "Would you like to sing?" She really didn't want to, but he seemed to want her to do so. Therefore, she nodded. "Very good." He pulled out a new sheaf of papers. "Your words are on top."

'As usual.' Christine sighed and tried desperately to focus on the words as he began to play. "_Too many-"_ His hand clapped over her mouth in a half-second, nearly knocking her from the bench. Erik's other arm caught her before she could fall.

"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" He hissed into her ear. Christine flinched, dropping her gaze.

"I didn't think-"

"I know you didn't!" He shouted. Christine, unable to control herself, burst into tears. The hand not around her waist began to stroke her cheek and hair immediately. "All right. All right. I didn't mean to shout at you. You're all right." He soothed, voice and hand gentle.

"I'm sorry." Christine choked out, trying to apologize for not telling him she was feeling ill and for crying.

"You're okay." He got up, using the arm around her waist to swing her up, supporting her easily. Moving smoothly Erik carried Christine back into the room she'd just escaped from and lay her on the bed, rolling her onto her stomach and untying her dress, slipping it off of her. She didn't bother to fight him, but was relieved when he left her in her chemise and underskirt.

She helped Erik return her to her back, trying to understand how she could feel so miserably ill. He seemed to be thinking the same thing. "You're not meant for a cold, damp environment." He sighed. Did that mean he planned to let her go?

He vanished for a moment, returning with a cold cloth that he placed on her forehead. Christine hadn't realized how much her face was burning until the compress was applied.

Exhausted, she tried to roll onto her side but couldn't find the energy. A soft whimper escaped her throat as a violent shiver ran through her. She felt Erik's hand on her cheek and heard him trying to speak to her…but nothing made sense anymore.

* * *

Her fever was incredible. Erik himself had a hard time processing that she could go from perfectly healthy to …this… overnight. He was trying to be gentle with her, soothing her. She didn't seem to care, she was mumbling to herself in a fit of delirium; almost as though she were narrating.

He stayed by her side until she finally went quiet. After checking the compress, Erik left Christine where she slept.

It was fortunate that he'd caught the catch in her voice before she'd gotten more than a few words out, or she would have hurt her perfect pitch control and range. That simply would not have done.

Leaving Christine at home, Erik slipped up through his passageways and catacombs, expertly threading into a room a few doors down from Madame Giry's. The Madame had requested, long ago, that he leave her own room that was a private place – meaning no passageways. He'd, of course, done as she'd asked.

Knocking politely at her door, Erik watched Madame Giry's surprise at his presence. "Yes?" She inquired.

"Christine is unwell." He explained shortly, "I need some way of making her feel better."

"Do you?" Madame Giry inquired, "I didn't realize you weren't capable of that with your sheer force of furious will." It was a hinting insult…Erik just couldn't figure out exactly what she meant.

"Yes." Erik replied absently as he tried to work through her words.

Madame Giry nodded, "Very well, come in. What are her symptoms?"

"Chills, fever…probably a sore throat, dizziness – she couldn't stay on her feet." Erik consulted his memory for any other symptoms he might have noticed, but nothing made itself apparent.

"Sounds like a bad cold." Madame Giry let him into her room, closing the door and heading to a cabinet that she kept carefully locked. Inside were many curatives, poultices, and tinctures. She knew that many of them were strong and possibly deadly when taken unneeded so she made sure no one could raid the cabinet.

Slipping the key from its hiding place, Madame Giry went to the cabinet and dug through it silently, finally coming out with a packet of a crushed green plant. She also removed a thick brownish liquid. Pressing them both into Erik's hands, she began to instruct. "You need to give her the green plant in hot tea every hour for about…it should work within six hours. When she's conscious and feeling better, she needs to drink a teaspoonful of this each hour until it's gone. She needs to be kept warm and as dry as possible."

Erik nodded, accepting the instructions and the medication. "Thank you, Madame." He turned, opening the door, but her voice stopped him before he could go further.

"You're caging a creature of light in darkness, Erik." She said calmly, "She isn't meant to exist down there; it's too cold and damp for her. You could kill her with your stubbornness."

"Thank you for imparting that useful information." Erik snapped, "She is mine and will remain where I want her." He slammed the door behind him and swept down the hall, tucking the medication into a hidden pocket. It wouldn't do for the Phantom to be seen carrying medicine.

* * *

The first two draughts seemed almost like dreams to Christine. She remembered Erik lifting her, sitting behind her to keep her up, and pressing the warm cup against her icy lips. She'd been eager enough to drink the medicine the first time, but the second time it tasted strange and she didn't like it…but Erik made her drink it.

The third time came and went in a bit more linear nature than the first two, and Christine began to grow more conscious. This also brought on a sort of delirium.

"_I said when we were married, we _would_, Christine. Guess what? You're mine now." Erik hissed into her ear, cold and raging possessiveness in his tone._

"_I don't want to be." She replied faintly, wanting to cry._

_He had her pinned beneath him, both unclothed once more. It was an uncomfortable and awkward situation._

"_I don't think I care what you want. How long is it going to take for you to realize that?" Erik snapped._

_Christine fought to pull away from him, tears filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. His tongue darted out, removing the tears from her cheeks. She chose to stare at him dumbly, unable to believe he'd just done what she thought he just did._

"_No crying." He chided._

_Christine turned her face away from him, trying to show that she was not pleased with him. His teeth pressed against her bared throat warningly. She yipped, pushing against him. As usual, he was unmovable._

"_I hate you!" It was a constant argument that she applied. Christine really wasn't sure she hated him anymore. She tried to hate him…but something about Erik made her want to return his love. Perhaps it was his eyes, carrying all of the sadness in the world. Maybe it was the way his voice and his training made her heart soar, her spirit lift. Somehow, it seemed to soften his harshness – he'd never truly been cruel to her._

_He'd been terrifying, had caused her pain…but in the same breath he could be gentle and comfort her. Christine was off-balance._

"_No you don't." He whispered, mouth still against her throat – but teeth no longer pressing._

"_Y-yes I do." Christine argued uncertainly._

_He shifted atop her and she squeaked, disliking the feel of his flesh flush against hers._

"_What's wrong, precious?" Erik murmured innocently. Christine shook her head, trying to turn her body away from him but failing; he was heavier and he kept her still. "Still trying to escape me?" His fingers bit into her shoulders, "How can I make it clear to you, Christine, _you can not escape me_, you are_ mine_, why won't you understand that?"_

_She whimpered softly at the pain, struggling to break away. He held her fast. "Get away from me! STOP TOUCHING ME! STOP IT!" His grasp changed, hands going to her throat and thumbs pressing against her larynx until she stopped shouting._

"_I've told you before and I suppose must tell you again: shouting like that will ruin your pianissimo, _don't_ do it again." She choked faintly and nodded, not relaxing until he released her._

"_Now, are you done fighting me?" He purred into her ear, shifting his position carefully._

"_No." Christine whispered, voice breaking._

"_Well, that's rather unfortunate for you, my dear."

* * *

_

Erik nearly started out of his skin when Christine began to scream. He was at her side in seconds, trying to grasp her and stop her wild thrashing, but she refused to be caught in his grasp.

"Christine!" He cried, trying to call her from the nightmare. "**Christine!**" She didn't respond.

He grabbed her finally, wrapping his arms firmly about her terribly tiny form, pressing her against his chest. "Wake up, _wake up_!" He wasn't sure whether he was more worried about her voice or her mind at this point. Her scream broke off as though she'd jerked awake, and she stopped fighting for a moment. Her hands lifted anxiously, fingers exploring his chest and after a moment twining in his tunic.

Erik let his tense muscles relax with hers, his embrace loosening as he determined that she wasn't going to become hysterical again. "Christine?" He murmured.

She shifted, slipping into his lap and curling against him a bit more. "Yes?" She replied.

Startled at her seeking comfort from him, Erik sat for a moment before remembering his question. "What were you dreaming of?"

She tensed in his grasp. After a long, stubborn silence…she made her reply in a voice that was barely a whisper. "You…" Erik frowned, suddenly he didn't want to hear the rest – he was pretty sure he knew what she'd dreamt.

"All right…I'm not going to hurt you. It's okay; relax." He whispered into her ear. Erik felt each muscle slowly relax, as though she were trying to decide whether she was willing to trust his word. When she was loose in his grasp once more, Erik gently lifted her from his lap and settled her once more upon the bed, her back pressed against the mattress. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. Erik made sure to hold her gaze as he pulled up the blankets and tucked them about her once more. The fear in her eyes faded into relief and she smiled at him gratefully, her cheeks still brilliantly flushed by fever.

Erik vacated the room, stepping lightly to the kitchen and pouring a new cup of the medicinal tea, carrying it carefully back to Christine. She was still awake, but barely. He sat next to her and watched her struggle to sit up for a moment before finally helping her with a guiding hand firm on her back. He tried to give her the cup, but when she nearly dropped it with her weak hands and he had to dive for it, Erik decided that she wasn't well enough to care for herself yet. Therefore, he assumed the same position and power he'd had while she was unconscious.

Pushing her forward a bit further, holding the tea out to the side, Erik slipped behind her, legs stretched out on either side of her. Christine leaned into him, as though seeking comfort and warmth. Erik gave what he could, pressing the cup to her lips. She was willing enough to let him treat her as a young child – obviously she still didn't feel too well.

"There, now." He said gently, a nonsensical comment, spoken only to let her hear his voice and comfort her. She finished drinking the medicine and closed her eyes, relaxing against him and breathing lightly as she tried to get comfortable. "I'm going to let you lay down on the pillows now, I have some work to do. A surprise for you, when you get all better. Okay?" He stroked her throat, fingers dancing across her pale skin. She let her head draw back a bit more and Erik continued to stroke her soft skin until he felt her beginning to relax into sleep. When her breathing had deepened and evened, he held her up gently and slipped out from under her, laying her down and again tucking her in.

Christine turned a bit to her side, one hand drifting up automatically to tuck under her cheek. Erik smiled at her fondly and walked away, eager to continue his gift to Christine.

* * *

When Christine finally arrived at consciousness once more, she felt much more alert and less feverish. She could still feel the fever – but it wasn't as powerful. Christine dully remembered the nightmare and the way Erik had acted after she'd awoken. She'd felt perfectly safe, even when he had his hand on her bared throat.

Christine realized with a jolt that she was warm. Touching her cheek she felt burning, which meant that she should have been incredibly cold – yet she was comfortable.

Rising from the sheets, Christine dully realized that her unshod feet were on something soft…like a rug…and it was warm too. She traveled slowly from her room. Erik was seated in the main room when she arrived, lounging in his armchair as he read a thick text that looked rather old. His cheek had an actual flush of colour.

"Erik?" She whispered. He was up in an instant, book neatly on the table by his chair, arm around her waist as he guided her to sit in the chair he'd been occupying.

His tone was gently chiding, "You shouldn't be up, Christine." He murmured gently. She nodded and realized, now that she was sitting, that she'd been swaying on her feet.

"Why's it warm?" She inquired.

A look of delight flitted across his features. Erik gestured to his right and Christine followed his gaze, eyes widening in shock as she took in the large fireplace that was so obvious that for a moment she wanted to slap herself for not noticing it sooner. The flames were crackling merrily, warmth washing across a cavern that had never felt warmth.

"Surprise." He smiled at her, obviously pleased by her reaction. She got to her feet, drifting to the fire and knelt in front of it, tilting her head. She smiled at him suddenly, hopping to her feet and running to him. Erik caught her before she could fall and she wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you!" She grinned at him and giggled, kissing his smooth cheek.

* * *

Erik hadn't expected her to be so delighted about the fireplace. She fairly lit the room now, despite her illness. He was pleased that she was excited, but didn't want to her overextend her limited reserves.

He could tell she was tiring already by the way she leaned on him and hadn't let go of his neck. Erik took her to the chair again, gently removing her arms from his body. "You're very welcome, my dear." He murmured, kissing her forehead. "I'm going to get you your last cup of tea."

"I dislike that tea." Christine informed him as she curled in the chair.

"I bet you do." He replied with a smirk and vanished into the kitchen, pouring the water and adding the last of the green leaves. Carrying the mixture back out, he found Christine sitting in front of the fire again. He delivered the tea to her and went back to his chair.

Reading his book, Erik didn't notice Christine stand. He was startled when his book moved. Shifting it to the side, he blinked as the brunette crawled back into his lap and curled there, clutching her tea and resting her head against his chest. She was seeking comfort again.

Memorizing his page number, Erik settled the book on the table once more and wrapped his arms around Christine. She relaxed against him and drank more of her tea. When she'd finished the warm drink he took the cup from her and settled it on the table as well, then he pressed her head against his chest once more.

"Feeling any better?"

"A little." She murmured in reply, her voice raspy. Erik nodded and didn't attempt conversation again; trying to make sure she didn't speak. She seemed content where she was in the silence, listening to the snap of the fire, eyes closed as she rested in his lap.

So this is what would make her love him. Not raging at her, not frightening her, not hurting her. He needed to earn her trust; to _show_ his love. Smiling in his newly acquired knowledge, Erik pressed his lips to the top of her head and shifted more comfortably, reaching with one arm to pull the book to the edge of the chair and keeping the other around her.

That was how they spent the rest of the night, Christine asleep in her angel's lap as he guarded her against his own darkness, reading a book.

* * *

"Good morning." Erik offered brightly as Christine stirred in his lap. She blinked up at him, eyes widening as she realized she'd slept on his lap all night.

"Good…morning…?" She offered with a weak grin.

He ran his hand across her hair and let her rise, standing with her. "Come, you need the second half of your regiment." Erik murmured, grasping her hand and leading her to the kitchen. He knew she'd not been there yet. It wasn't exactly an overly well-done room; Erik had never cared for the kitchen for anything more than a meal. Christine stood behind him as he prepared a teaspoonful of the odd brown liquid. He turned about, "Open your mouth." She blinked at him, and after a moment hesitantly followed the order. Erik popped the spoon in her mouth and she accepted the medication, shuddering as she swallowed it and tried not to gag.

Erik took pity on her and filled a glass of water for her. She drank it greedily, wrinkling her nose as she gave it back with a word of thanks. "I hate this already." She offered as explanation for her wicked glare at the bottle. Erik smiled and shook his head. "Hungry?"

"No." She looked slightly nauseas and pale. He moved forward, grasping her waist.

"You're too weak to be up." He scolded, although he'd been the one to take her on the fieldtrip to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry…" Christine offered faintly.

He stroked her cheek fondly and then frowned. "Do not speak, Christine, it may harm your voice. Unless you're quiet I shall be obliged to gag you." He made sure to keep a light tone to his voice, but also made it a point to frown seriously.

"Al-" She stopped herself midword and dropped her eyes, closing her mouth. He smiled at her and nodded, keeping his grip firm on her waist, he led her from the kitchen and back to her room, letting her loose so she could sit.

He started to leave, but she grasped his hand suddenly – he had no convenient cloak for her to grab, as it was warm and he therefore didn't need the cloak. Erik turned and saw her hopeful eyes as she tugged gently at his hand. He felt a glow of pride at the fact that she wanted him to stay with her; trusted him not to try anything.

"I'm sorry, my dearest." He tugged free, "I have a few matters to attend to. Go to sleep, I'll tuck you in, and I'll come back later. All right?" She looked upset at the idea but nodded obediently and lay down. He tucked her in gently and stroked her hair, before turning and leaving her alone – for the first time not worrying that she would run.

* * *

"Gentlemen, I believe we need to have a talk." Richard Firmin and Gilles André both turned an unhealthy shade of white. Staring around their office wide-eyed, the pair tried to spy their opera ghost.

So used to him not appearing, they were both stunned when he stepped from the shadows as though he'd been there the whole time…not something they'd entirely discount.

"W-what have we done wrong?" André inquired, trying to keep his voice firm. "Box five has remained empty; your salary has been paid; what's left?"

An unpleasant smirk spread across what was visible of his mouth. "It's a matter of your casting, really. I can't help but notice you're still casting one Signora Carlotta Giudicelli again."

"You cast her, too, remember? In your opera." Firmin reminded.

The Phantom's head moved marginally in a nod. "As a chorus member."

"As the _choragus_!" André put in.

"Do refrain from using Greek terms, Monsieur, it makes you seem more educated than you are." It was a biting comment. The two decided not to mention the Phantom's casting decision for his play. "Back on topic. I suggest you either find a new lead soprano; or I am going to end her reign _for_ you."

The pair gave identical nervous gulps. They knew, by now, that when the Phantom casually mentioned murder it usually occurred unless his demands were met. Firmin put it together first, "You have a 'suggestion'?" His term suggested that he was stating a fact, not a question.

"Yes." The Phantom said patiently, "Mademoiselle Christine Da…Christine."

"Of course." Firmin sighed, he'd thought as much. The absence of her last name confused him, however. "Is her last name not Daaé?"

"Not anymore." Phantom smirked and tilted his head, "Now, are you going to do as I say or are you going to let the next Opera be Carlotta's last?"

"We'll do as you say." They proclaimed in a shaky unison, "May she stay on for one final Opera?"

"Of course." Phantom snapped, "Do not think me wholly cruel. She may have a 'final farewell'."

André inquired, "Why is Miss Christine's last name different now?"

The Phantom seemed distracted suddenly, as though something he'd said was ringing in his head. "Hmmm?" It was the first time he'd ever done that, the two stared. He seemed to realize what André had politely asked and responded, "Because she's now mine." Ignoring the stunned reaction of the managers, the Phantom melted back into the shadows, "Ah, and Messieurs?" They both glanced at the shadow, unable to see him anymore, "Fire the second violin. He can't keep his instrument in tune and he doesn't use enough rosin. One who would abuse their equipment like that deserves no place in an orchestra."

He was gone.

* * *

Christine woke when she felt the bed shift. She forced her eyes open and stared at Erik. He smiled at her and pressed his palm to her cheek. "Your fever broke." She could tell; she was a bit too hot and very uncomfortable, clammy and sticky – and extremely weak.

Christine closed her eyes again, for a moment, opening them again when he pulled the blankets from her. She shivered, her body soaked with perspiration. "Come, my darling." He helped her to her feet, and gently helped her to a new room. Christine dully noted it was a bathroom, with a full tub.

"Do you need help?" He inquired, voice making it clear that he would leave if she asked it of him. Christine mulled over the question for a moment before nodding. He let her go, "Very well." Erik left the room for a moment, before returning with a neatly bundled stack of clothing which he set to the side.

When he motioned her to come to him, Christine did so reluctantly and with some hesitation, but found she was less bothered by the idea of his touch than normal. After all; he'd been so terribly diligent about caring for her.

His fingers were gentle as he carefully untied her nightgown. Christine would have preferred he avert his eyes, but his gaze was not hungry or frightening. He helped her to the bathtub – catching her exhausted shaking. Without a moment to let her protest he caught her under the arms, picked her up, swung her into the tub, and settled her into the warm water.

It went to her chin, comfortable and seeming to smell of roses. Christine closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Just in time, because Erik chose then to dunk her. She came up with a squeak, coughing. "Oops," Erik snickered softly, "Did I forget to warn you?" Christine rolled her eyes and glanced at him, flushing slightly when she saw that he was without a shirt. He really was very muscular.

He turned her face away and began to wash her hair for her. Christine closed her eyes and enjoyed it, this time getting a warning before her dunking. She came up quietly this time, and let him condition her hair. He dunked her again, and Christine resisted the urge to be irritated. Her hair was clean – it was a plus. She kept her eyes closed, even when he lifted her right arm from the water. She felt a cloth rubbing her arm gently.

The bath was not terribly long, and Erik did nothing to make Christine uncomfortable. When he had her as clean has he could, he shook her shoulder to wake her a bit more and helped her stand. He let her stand alone for a moment to grab a towel, and turned just in time to catch her in it. She leaned heavily against him, cheeks flushed with the return of her fever.

"Bloody hell." Erik hissed through his teeth. He'd forgotten to give her a dose of the medicine; it hadn't occurred to him until now. Muttering a few more expletives, he lowered her to sit on the floor and gently toweled her off, wrapping her hair in the towel when he was done. She sat docilely, apparently too distracted by her fever to care that she was unclothed.

Erik first dressed her in her smallclothes, then brought her a clean shift he'd found, it was all black with a fragile lace trim. The cloth was a delicate silk. "Arms above your head." He ordered gently. Christine did as he said without hesitation, eyes half-lidded. Erik pulled the shift over her head and tied the ribbon at the neck, making sure to make the bow tight but not painfully so; he certainly didn't want to restrict her breathing.

Christine grasped his arm when he went to rise, and managed a huge grin. "Thank you."

He pressed his left pointer finger to her lips, "Quiet," He warned.

She tilted her head, smile childishly devilish. "Or what?"

"I'll gag you. You know I will." She giggled at him, but stopped speaking. Erik knew the signs of mild delirium when he saw them and checked her forehead. Her skin was on fire. He lifted her, sweeping her fragile form into his arms. Christine curled against him instinctively, beginning to shiver.

He carried her to the bed, settling her atop it and removing the towel from her hair. Making sure she could sit up alone, he went to retrieve her hairbrush. Settling behind her, he began to run it through her curls, surprised when they brushed straight. After a moment her hair curled again, but Erik found it fascinating that when it was wet he could brush away the curls.

When he'd brushed all of the tangles from her hair, he tied it off of her neck with a ribbon that was tied around the hairbrush. "Christine?" He inquired, noticing how lax she was in his grasp. No response came. Worried, he pressed his fingers under her throat. Her pulse came slowly, steady but faint.

Frowning, Erik rose and settled her into the bed, tucking her into the bed. She did not move, face deathly pale except for her too-flushed cheeks. _You could kill her with your stubbornness._ Madame Giry's words haunted him now. He'd made their home warm and dry through sheer force of will, he'd just erred in her medication. Therefore, he would come up with a new way to save her.

Stroking her burning cheek, Erik swept from the room, snatching a shirt as he went.


	10. Light

**My Dearest Reader:**

**We are most pleased that you have continued to follow this tale. You may be pleased to know that as of this moment you have completed one-hundred and one pages of Maître. This chapter may be slightly confusing toward the end; but we assure you that all will be explained soon enough.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

**Maître**

_Chapter Ten_

Light

* * *

"Madame Giry?" Erik called, waiting impatiently for her to open the door. He knocked again, ire growing.

Finally she opened the door, hair disheveled and clothes disorganized. Erik quirked an eyebrow and she rolled her eyes, grasping his arm and guiding him into the room. "What can I do for you, Erik?" She inquired - tone reproachful.

He glanced around; upon finding no man he satisfied himself with the thought that he'd awoken her. "Christine is worse." He explained with no preamble.

Madame Giry's mouth tightened. Erik knew she considered Christine another daughter; he also knew the level of Christine's devotion to the Madame – which he'd tested with his threat to Madame Giry. "The medication did not work?"

"I failed to give her a dose of the brown liquid, and she reacted instantly. Unfortunately she is worse now, and therefore I doubt the tea will work again."

"Of course it won't, you ingrate!" At his dark glower, Madame Giry's temper – something young ballet rats had nightmares about – increased sharply, "Do you believe yourself above reproach? You did something foolish and you will take responsibility for it. I gave you instructions; _you_ failed to follow them."

"I'm aware of that, Madame." Erik snapped.

Her hand came up as though she was going to slap him and for a moment he actually felt fear. He remembered once that she'd smacked him upside the head when they were younger. Not an experience he was eager to repeat. She did not swing, just kept her hand up. "I'm sure you are, Monsieur. And here is what you're going to do. You're going to let me get a doctor, you're going to wait at the east trapdoor under the Persian tapestry, and you're going to take us to Christine. Understood?" Erik nodded.

It wasn't until she'd brushed by him and vacated the room that he realized what had just happened. "…I'll be…" He murmured, amused. Madame Giry could call power at any time she wanted, it was admirable.

* * *

Erik waited impatiently at the trapdoor she'd specified, irritated. How long did it take to get a – squeaking interrupted his stream-of-consciousness and, irritated at the interruption to his good brood, he rose. Madame Giry slipped easily into the trapdoor, followed by a handsome young man. Erik nearly killed the boy right there.

With supreme effort, he recalled Christine's swiftly growing trust in him – a trust he'd rather abused, with his idiocy when dealing with the medicine. Calmed by the surety that she wouldn't decide to leave with the man, he managed a polite half-bow. "Welcome."

"This is Doctor Michael D'Chaux." Madame Giry introduced politely, "Michael, this is Monsieur Phantom." She smiled at that, as though it were some private joke that only she got. "You'll be tending to his wife, Christine." Introductions complete, she indicated to Erik that he was to lead the way.

He didn't argue, just turned and preceded them to his home.

* * *

"How long has she been like this, Monsieur?" Michael inquired politely, as he eyed Christine.

Erik tried not to be possessive; really he did. After all, the boy was a doctor. He was looking at Christine with nothing more than a polite, professional interest. "Two days."

"She's this bad…after two days?"

"Yes." Erik wanted to smack the kid's skeptical face. He held firm control over his urges.

Madame Giry seemed to notice his struggle and stepped forth. She drew Michael to the side, whispering to him. After a moment, the doctor returned. "Very well, I'll need to examine her. With your permission, of course, Monsieur." He turned his gaze respectfully to Erik. The dark figure nodded, drifting back a bit further into the shadows until he was little more than a floating mask and glinting eyes.

This, for some unknown reason, seemed to unnerve the boy a bit. Fancy that.

Michael pulled the blankets down, eyebrows quirking a bit at Christine's high-necked gown. He untied the ribbon gently, glancing at Erik uncertainly, before pushing down the top of the nightgown. He pressed his fingers to her pulse first, and then felt gently under her throat. "Glands are swollen…" He murmured, seeming to catalogue this in his mental file.

Erik watched as the boy felt down Christine – _very_ careful – and mumbled more observations to himself. He seemed especially interested by the way that she flinched away from him when he touched certain parts of her torso and arms. The Phantom was ready to Punjab the kid for having his hands all over Christine, especially when she cried out faintly as his fingers pressed certain points on her body.

Finally, as though realizing that he was in danger of finding a rope about his neck, Michael stepped away from Christine. "I believe she has a mild case of Influenza."

"In…flew…in...zuh?" Erik pronounced slowly.

"In-flew-en-zah." Michael corrected.

"Okay." Erik muttered testily, "What's that?"

"It's a disease somewhat like a severe cold. It can weaken a person to the point where they die of fever. Often they slip into a comatose state such as this, and thereby lack of their fluids which explains the fever-death."

_Death_. This could kill her. He could kill her. His _idiocy_ could kill her. For the first time, Christine had needed him – had willingly put her delicate life into his hands. And he'd failed her.

_He had failed her._

Fury filled his entire body, rage at himself. He slammed his fist into the wall behind him. Madame Giry's chilly touch came to his arm and snapped him to his senses. "Erik." She whispered his name so that Michael could not hear it, "She'll be okay. She has a doctor now, he can help. He said it was a _mild_ case of the Influenza." Her tongue also stumbled a bit over the new word, but she said it much better than he had.

Erik's muscles slowly relaxed themselves, his self-loathing faded as Madame Giry made it obvious he could still fix his mistake. "Sorry I threatened you." He offered, knowing it was a random comment, off-handedly as he drifted by her to Michael's side. "What can I do for her?"

"_You_ just need to be there with her. _I_ will do the rest." Michael said firmly, gesturing toward the bed. "Try to bring her to consciousness. Where is your kitchen?" Erik gave him directions to the desired room and waited for him to leave the room before heading to _his_ Christine's bed.

Madame Giry touched his arm and vanished in the direction Michael had taken.

Erik rested next to Christine, reaching out to ghost his hand across her cheek. She gave no reaction. "Christine…" She didn't move. "**Floating…falling…**" He whispered, leaning into her, "**Sweet intoxication…**" Her eyelashes fluttered, "**Touch me…trust me…**" She began to move a bit, her eyes fluttering open. "**Savour each sensation…**" Her chocolate eyes locked with his blue ones, the clarity of her eyes rather surprised him. It lasted for only a few seconds before it faded away.

She was still conscious, and when he reached out she pressed her cheek to his hand. Erik nearly pulled away; her cheek was fiery. He stroked her forehead and rose, hurrying to the lake and soaking a cloth, returning and pressing the compress to her forehead. She shuddered, but at the same time pressed against it eagerly.

"How are you feeling?" Her quirked eyebrow answered the question and reminded him that he'd told her not to speak. Erik continued to press the compress gently against her forehead, keeping her down as well as trying to break her fever. "You have Influenza." Her eyes widened and she seemed to panic. "It's okay, calm down! You'll be okay."

"My father…" Her voice was raspy and Erik moved to cover her mouth, but she snapped her head away from him as far as she could while he had her pinned. "My father died of Influenza."

"You'll be okay." Erik restated.

"It's contagious…you need to leave."

"_You_ need to be quiet. And I am just fine. I may be disfigured, but I had the grand luck to inherit an incredible immune system."

Christine stared at him soulfully, before finally dropping her gaze and sighing faintly. She closed her eyes and began to sleep. Erik didn't think it wise to let her, and began to sing once more.

* * *

"Drink this." Michael murmured to Christine, who stared at him as though he had purple hair. He tilted his head, "My name is Doctor Michael D'Chaux. Please drink this." She took the tincture. It smelled funny and she winced, but drank it down bravely.

"What is it?" Erik inquired.

"Ginseng, Goldenseal, and some Clove for flavour." Christine glare made it clear that the 'flavour' was lacking. The doctor chuckled, "I tried." She grumbled silently and closed her eyes, snuggling deeper in her pillows – obviously wishing everyone would just leave her alone.

Erik kicked off his boots and rolled up his sleeves. He lifted one edge of the blankets and slipped under. Christine curled against him the instant he was there and he looped one arm around her waist. He ignored Madame Giry and Monsieur D'Chaux, happy to rest peaceably with his girl.

"We'll check on you later." Michael and Madame Giry vacated the room.

* * *

Erik awoke to feel Christine fighting restlessly against his grasp. He let her go and watched her roll from the bed, shivering violently as perspiration soaked her body. She was shaking from cold and weakness as she stood, looking rather pitiable. He rose swiftly, standing firm as she wrapped her arms about his abdomen, shivering.

"What's wrong?"

"Fever." She rasped in a whisper, "It's breaking." She whimpered faintly and closed her eyes, leaning against him. Erik caught her just as she went limp and lifted her gently, laying her back upon the bed and turning just in time to intercept a cloth Madame Giry had lobbed at him. It was icy and he smiled at her in thanks, pressing it to Christine's forehead, and then her throat.

She fussed in her sleep, perspiring even more, whimpering softly.

Christine felt Erik's presence and a cold cloth against her throat. It shifted suddenly, moving to her forehead and dabbing gently, then returned to her throat. It was comforting.

She opened her eyes, feeling cool and calm for the first time in days. "Eri-" His palm clapped to her mouth instantly.

"No talking." He said firmly. She fought the urge to growl at him and nodded submissively. He removed his hand suspiciously and she sighed faintly, but didn't talk. Instead, she pointed to her forehead. Erik pressed his palm to her skin and his eyes lit with pleasure. "You're not burning anymore!" Christine smiled and nodded.

Erik grinned and grasped her under the arms, lifting her and spinning her, before crushing her against him in a hug. Christine stumbled, dizzy, when he let go. Blinking, she glanced down at herself. The nightgown was pretty, tight around the torso and loose about her ankles, sleeves long.

Erik caught her arm and gently led her into the main room, where she was startled to see Madame Giry and…who was it…Monsieur…D'Chaux? Yes, that was it. She smiled at both and bowed her head to Madame Giry, curtseying to Monsieur D'Chaux.

"I see you're feeling better." The man grinned at Madame Giry, "Heh. I told you Ginseng was practically a wonder-cure."

"I'm sure you did, Michael, but I was too busy trying to breathe beyond the cloying odor of the first two mistakes."

He made a face at the ballet mistress, who smirked. Christine smiled, and gasped when her knees buckled. The arm Erik had on her arm shifted and wrapped around her waist, swinging her. Effortlessly he looped his other arm under her legs and remained as calm as ever; as though he hadn't just executed a maneuver that wasn't often seen.

Michael sighed, "You should take her back to bed, Monsieur Phantom, she's weak yet." He nodded at that.

Christine closed her eyes, and didn't notice Erik carrying her back to the room as she'd already fallen asleep.

* * *

When Christine finally awoke and meant it, she felt sick and weak from hunger. She struggled from the bed and went searching for Erik. She found him quickly and he was at her side the instant he noticed her, looping his arm about her waist.

"Hungry." She rasped, careful to barely whisper the word.

Erik nodded and assisted her to the kitchen, where he helped her sit on the floor – there was no table. He found her a slice of bread, which she ate with a vengeance. Next he offered her some broth, which she again attacked. Heartened by her appetite, Erik supplied her with a steady stream of what he could manage until she finally claimed to be full.

He waited and she rose of her own volition, much less shaky, and slipped by him to where she knew he kept the water. Erik watched with stunned admiration as she drank more water than he would have thought her capable of, and when she was done he let her get back to her feet without his aid once more.

A healthy colour was in her cheeks, and she was feeling brighter by the moment. He shook his head when she opened her mouth and she sighed faintly, but didn't try to speak – the threat of gagging with still enough to keep her quiet.

Erik offered his hand and led her back into the main room, where she took a seat on his armchair, warmed by the nearby fireplace. Somehow, he'd kept it at a constant flame. This should not have been surprising to her.

Christine startled when Erik played a scale on the organ, and got to her feet, stumbling to his writing table, taking up his quill and neatly writing a note, replacing the quill and taking the note to Erik before collapsing back into her chair.

_Erik,_

_Where did everyone go? When can I speak again? Will you play something? Thank you for caring for me. When is your birthday? What's your favourite colour? How old are you? What is your _('Your' was marked out with a single line across the middle) _our last name?_

_-Christine_

He stared at it for a long moment before snickering. "Madame Giry and Monsieur Michael left when they knew you were fine and I would call for them if you grew worse once more; I really hate guests that overstay their welcome. You may speak when I decide you can do so without hurting your voice; this may take some time. I shall play you a song when I'm done here.

"You are most welcome for my care. I'm not sure as to when my birthday is; my mother didn't bother to remember it. However, her friend held a birthday for me one day so I suppose I shall go with the thirteenth of January." Christine thought on that – what month was it…December, last time she checked, which reminded her that Christmas was on its way. It was a random thought.

"My favourite colour is maroon. I'm not sure how old I am; I came here at about the age of twelve and have been here for about thirty years…so we'll guess forty-two." That was … old, for lack of a better word, in comparison to Christine's eighteen. "Our last name…" He frowned at her and she dropped her gaze apologetically. "I suppose you do have the right to know it."

She lifted her eyes again, at the surprising words. "If you'll give me a moment, my darling, I have not used my last name in some time and must go look at my records." He nodded at her and vanished for a moment. He looked rather upset when he returned. "I can't seem to find my mother's last name…"

Suddenly, his eyes darkened and Christine stiffened. "It doesn't matter. She never wanted me to begin with; why would I take _her_ name? I shall take the surname of the man who gave me _my_ name: Mansart." He smiled at her, trying to comfort her sudden uneasiness. She relaxed again.

_Mansart._

Erik Mansart…Christine Mansart…it seemed alright.

"Who was the man who gave you your name? Why?" His eyes turned to ice and Christine slapped her hand over her mouth.

"I suppose I shall have to-" She shook her head vehemently and he paused, and then sighed, "One last chance. I won't let my feelings get in the way of the protection of your voice." She nodded obediently. "His name was Father Erik Mansart; my mother was unable, in her revulsion, to name me so she told him to give me his name and he did.

"Father Mansart was the first person to show me compassion. I used to enjoy our lessons…until he told me that animal-souls don't go to heaven. My dog, Sasha, was murdered by wicked schoolchildren in my town and that announcement really stung. I went rather crazy, I must admit. Therefore, my days with the only man who ever treated me as a human being ended." Christine dropped her eyes, not sure whether she felt more pity for Erik or the priest. She'd been at the brunt of Erik's temper; even as a child he must have been an unholy terror. He was right in front of her suddenly, whispering into her ear with an air of amusement. "He had me exorcised." Quite suddenly, she heard someone speaking from elsewhere, across the way. "Apparently they're scared of ghosts."

Christine startled, glancing to where the voice had come from…she thought. Nothing. Blinking, she glanced back at Erik, who had a mischievous grin. She quirked a knowing eyebrow and he grinned more widely. "Caught me."

Shaking her head at him, she pointed to the organ hopefully. Erik grinned at her and shook his head a bit. "All right, all right. Tenacious, aren't you?" A smile still ghosting his lips, he went to the organ and settled in, his hands pausing over the keys for a long moment.

He didn't seem able to call any tunes to mind immediately, so after a deafening pause, he began to play randomly, the notes at first scattered and unsure but slowly changing into intricate and flowing rhythms. Christine smiled, feeling her muscles relax as the music wrapped around her in a soothing embrace. She curled into the chair, eyes closed, and listened.

* * *

Weeks passed before Erik finally decided that Christine was allowed to speak. She took that announcement with great joy, as she absolutely detested the silence.

"Low C scale." He demanded. She sang it with pleasure, he kept his head tilted toward her, and his face was serious as he concentrated to be sure there was no evidence of damage or tenacious illness.

When he was satisfied with that, Erik took her through lower scales, and then higher…until Christine could hardly breathe. He stopped well before the final note she'd hit all those days ago, knowing she would not be able to reach it to save her life at that moment.

Their lesson went on in that manner, scale upon scale upon scale. Christine felt that she was going to go mad. Finally, Erik stopped them. "We'll not sing a song today." He decided absently, "You're not ready for that. Instead…" She quirked an eyebrow expectantly, "We're going outside."

Christine gasped, eyes lighting with pleasure. "Really?" She cried, feeling colour rush her cheeks.

"Yes." Erik replied lightly, a smile on his lips. "Get your cloak on."

Ignoring the fact that he spoke as though she were a child, Christine scampered for her cloak. When she returned, he had his on as well. Taking her hand, he led her through the mirror she'd used to go outside the first time.

Christine remembered that he'd locked the door…but when they got to it, the handle turned easily and they were admitted to the brilliant sunlight. She felt her heart skip a beat. The fact that he led her straight to the door and the fact that it was unlocked…he was trusting her not to run. It was definitely an improvement. What made it even better was the fact that she didn't _want_ to run.

The sunlight was incredibly bright – having been denied it for so long, Christine was rather startled by it. She breathed in the air of the outside and found it to carry a strange scent. The light breeze was too cold. The sun too bright. She disliked it. Christine drew back slightly and Erik looked down at her with concern.

"What's wrong, Christine?"

"I…don't like it out here." She admitted.

Christine was stunned to see shock, then fury, light his face. She flinched, but his voice was calm. "Go see the flowers, Christine, they're in full bloom." He let her go and she slowly went to do as he ordered, glancing over her shoulder at him. He was watching her raptly.

She knelt among the blossoms, something which would have given her supreme pleasure, but now was so disinteresting. The flowers were ugly, strangely bright colours and smelled odd. She couldn't stand them and swiftly vacated the area.

Erik was watching her, frowning.

* * *

He'd ruined her. Watching her now, it was shattering. Her eyes were dull, her cheeks – cheeks that had held a flush of excitement for a bare moment – were pale and drab. She walked slowly, not seeming particularly drawn by anything at all.

Erik wasn't sure if he was more angry at himself or her. _How dare she try to make me feel guilty!_ An obscure, almost forgotten, voice in his mind shouted. Yes, that must be it. She was playing him, trying to make him feel guilty so he'd let her go. The conniving wench.

How dare she.

The Phantom narrowed his eyes and strode forward, snatching her wrist. She turned to him with a wide-eyed expression of surprise. He yanked her with him, dragging her back into his darkness as the sun began to set.

She stumbled behind him, blind in the darkness. "E-Erik? What's wrong?" The Phantom refused to dignify her with a response. "Erik?" Her voice was trembling.

"Be quiet." He demanded sharply. She fell silent behind him, still stumbling to keep up with his pace, her wrist limp in what had to be a painful grasp.

They reached the lair swiftly, the Phantom didn't hesitate to lead her impatiently back into her room. Their room. The room.

"Undress." He demanded.

She quirked her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"I tire of waiting. Again, I have been too patient with your childishness. I am taking what is mine. Cooperate." The Phantom snapped.

Christine backed away, eyes narrowing. "No." She snapped defiantly.

"Christine!" He spat her name as though it were a curse, "Do not make me say it again."

"Don't come near me!" She shouted in response.

"Do not shout!" He lunged at her.

The Phantomnoticed that she was reaching behind her, and then something sharp wasin his shoulder…then nothing.

* * *

When Erik came around, the first thing he noticed was absolutely searing pain in his right shoulder. He reached up and felt a bandage. Sitting up, he noticed he was in Christine's room.

His last concious memory was of watching Christine and realizing that he had begun to break her spirit. And now he was inside, and in pain. That was unnerving.

Getting to his feet, Erik's eyes fell to the floor. A glint of silver caught his attention and he stepped closer, realizing dully that the dagger was one he'd tossed carelessly on her table several long nights ago. It was covered in blood. Hopefully _his_ blood.

He vacated the room swiftly, looking for his young bride.

Erik was surprised to find her. She had fallen asleep in his chair, curled up, chin resting on her knees. He reached out to her, brushing some of her curls back into place. She came to with a jerk, eyes snapping open, giving a tiny shriek. He'd never seen her move so quickly, she was behind the chair and cowering from him in moments.

"Christine? What's wrong?" Erik inquired, confused. He had done nothing, as far as he could recall, to make her do anything but trust him.

"Stay away." She whispered. He frowned at her.

"Why is there a dagger covered in blood on the floor in your room, and a bandage on my shoulder?"

She stared at him wide-eyed for a moment before realizing he wasn't being purposely obtuse. "You…took me outside yesterday and I wasn't enjoying myself and then you grabbed me and yanked me back down here and told me to undress 'cause you were going to take what was yours because I was too childish and then I didn't want to and you tried to attack me and I grabbed the dagger you'd left and you sort of fell onto it and I guess it kinda stabbed you." Erik noted that she said all of that in one breath. "Then I bandaged it and just left you there."

"I attacked you?" He inquired incredulously. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know!" She cried shrilly, "You did it, not me!"

"I…honestly don't remember doing that." He strolled around the chair, and watched as she scampered away from him. "I'm not going to hurt you, Christine, come here." She shook her head. He sighed, "I said _come here_. Now."

She looked ready to cry. Erik felt his heart break, but he wanted to show her that whatever he'd been yesterday was not the same as he was now. She walked slowly toward him, like a shy fawn. He held his hand out for her and waited patiently for her to finally reach him and accept the grasp. She took his hand mistrustfully.

He tightened his grip and pulled her in, hating the way she stiffened. He knew that his blackouts were never a good thing. He used to get them all of the time, before he met Christine. They were less frequent after he met her. But there was always a disaster of some sort waiting for when he awoke from them.

He couldn't stand the thought that whatever he'd done unconciously had nearly hurt his Christine.

He pulled her to his chest, wrapping his other arm around her and ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Erik heard her gasp quietly, but she made no attempt to escape, standing stiff in his arms.

"You're okay." He soothed, "I'm not going to hurt you." She trembled in his grasp. "I don't know what happened yesterday, but I beg you to forget it and in return I shall try to avoid a repetition. Can you agree to that, Christine?"

Erik waited expectantly.

After a long pause, he felt her nod against his chest.

"Good girl." He murmured gently, finally letting her go.

She backed away, "I'm sorry I stabbed you…"

"I'm sure I deserved it." Erik smiled mildly and turned to go to his room and get a bit of morphine – he wasn't addicted anymore, he'd broken the addiction before taking Christine, not wanting to frighten her with a opiate-induced idiocy…but he still kept some on hand for painful encounters such as these. This wasn't the first time the Phantom had been stabbed.

Erik was in his room, pushing a small amount of morphine into his veins, when he heard a scream.

Startled, he removed the needle and let it fall, running from his room and grabbing one of his abandoned cloaks as he did, swirling it around his shoulders and ignoring the sudden feeling to being too-warm.

Christine was struggling in the grasp of a man that looked oddly familiar.

"Good day, Monsieur Phantom." Raoul De Chagney murmured.


	11. Journey to My Love

**My Dearest Reader:**

**Our most sincere apologies. Maître is still our pet project; but alas – life happens. Including writer's block and four advanced classes in highschool, to start the list. **

**On top of that, Dove is a newly discovered first soprano, and therefore has decided to participate in Solo Ensemble and Allstate Choir Auditions. As well as a monologue, a duet, and being the makeup artist for the upcoming State Drama Festival.**

**Our little bird is quite busy. But she hasn't forgotten, and promises to try to update more often.**

**A final note – the song used in this chapter belongs to Johannes Brahms, not us. It's the Allstate Audition piece, in case anyone is curious.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

**Maître**

_Chapter Eleven_

Journey to My Love

* * *

Erik was furious – he was angry, in a rage, gritting his teeth and red in the face. Never before had he desired to tear out a throat with his bare hands. His vision swam as he remembered to breathe, panting in short bursts.

"Tongue-tied, monsieur?" Raoul mocked in his annoying, little, whiney voice. Obviously he didn't understand the danger he was in.

Forcing calm, Erik purred, "You expect me to waste words on _you_?"

Raoul glared, before another panicked sound from Christine drew his attention. Erik calmed down slightly when he saw that Raoul looked upset at Christine's frenzied attempts to escape.

The blonde was whispering to her soothingly, refusing to release her. The brunette was ignoring him, staring imploringly about.

"_Monsieur le Vicomte!_" Erik boomed, demanding the boy's attention instantly "Do release my wide." His voice echoed deliciously. Power filled him once more, straightening his back and crossing his arms. "How _are_ you still alive, boy?" He wondered irritably.

"You only broke my collarbone. Months of rehabilitation, and here I am. I'm here to free your damsel prisoner from the tower you've tapped her in!"

"I count two terribly employed clichés, and you forgot to call me 'Wicked witch'." He paused, "There's a song there somewhere…Don-dong…anyway, _do_ try to be more original."

Raoul glowered, obviously realizing that what little power he'd gained had been taken from him.

Christine seemed to realize that her Erik had come, as her eyes lit on his own, and went wide, her struggles stilling. Misinterpreting her pale face as fright at Erik's presence, Raoul turned her and crushed her against his chest.

Erik winced. It was like watching the boy manhandle a butterfly, and it pissed him off all the more. "Duel."

Raoul blinked up at him, looking startled. "What?"

"Consider the proverbial gauntlet thrown, as I am quite fond of these gloves and do not wish to toss them on the floor."

"A _duel_?" Raoul inquired incredulously.

"You make a darling parrot, Vicomte. Now, I have dulled rapiers down here so we'll be perfectly safe. Winner takes Christine, loser leaves."

"Seems simple. Very well." Raoul decided hesitantly.

"Don't I get a say?" Christine chimed in timidly.

"No." Both men replied.

Raoul finally released Christine, who made a strangled sound of relief and ran to Erik. Startled, the masked man returned her embrace and led her gently to the fire. Settling in front of it, Erik pressed a chaste kiss to her curls.

"Wait here for me, my dear." Shrugging her hands from his shoulders, Erik turned to face his opponent. "Ready?" The Victome had shed his constricting jacket and loosened his cuffs. The boy nodded.

* * *

Christine watched as Erik seemed to produce a pair of rapiers from nowhere and toss one to Raoul. She didn't like being treated like a trophy.

They began the duel with effortless opening routine. Christine watched Erik more than Raoul, stunned by the fact that he could duel – how had he learned? His movements were effortless and silk-smooth. Raoul had good form, but he was clumsy.

The duel was calm, professional, and full of agonizingly loud ring of swords. Christine saw that the men were evenly matched – Erik had brute strength, Raoul had more practice.

It happened to swiftly that it took Christine a good two seconds to register it. Raoul reached up, slamming his palm ferociously into Erik's bad shoulder. The dark-haired man gave a sound Christine had never heard him utter – it was almost a scream. The knife wound reopened in a blossom of blood across his shirt and he tumbled to the ground.

"_Hold_!" Christine shrieked, remembering the term from watching her father fence. Raoul didn't stop, he slammed his foot into Erik's bloodied shoulder. "**Stop**!" She screamed, throwing herself across the room to defend Erik with her own body. "Don't hurt him! Stop!"

Raoul stopped, but seized her arm. "We're leaving, Christine. I've won."

"Stop Raoul, please stop! Leave me!"

"I won't!" Raoul grasped her shoulder, shaking her so hard that her head snapped on her neck. "I love you, Christine! I won't leave you to that monster!"

Tears burned familiar paths down her pale cheeks. "I _don't_ love _you_!" She cried despairingly.

In a soothing tone, Raoul sang, "_No more talk of darkness_-"

"No!" Christine brought him up short. "The darkness is my home now." Her tone was helpless, "I love Erik."

His grasp dropped from her arms. Another replaced it, a familiar touch of steel power. Christine let him draw her back to his chest. "Go sit down, my dear." Phantom purred. She didn't disobey – that voice didn't sound like Erik's.

Hurrying to the first, she knelt before it on the soft Persian rug and watched Erik take Raoul by the collar. "Erik doesn't appreciate your presence. His shoulder hurts. He _really_ wants to kill you." Phantom's voice was thunderously powerful, although he didn't raise it.

Raoul's face went unhealthily white. His eyes darted nervously, and he looked ready to cry. "Here's what you are going to do. You are going to leave, and you will not return. If you do, _I_ will kill you." His voice lifted to a roar, "**Go**!" The Phantom heaved, casting Raoul away. Terrified gasps of air came from the Vicomte as he obeyed without question. Phantom swept from the room as well.

Christine watched, feeling numb from scalp to toes. So very…different. He could change at will. It only he weren't so frightening. She didn't dare move, for fear of calling angry wrath upon herself when he returned.

Several long minutes ticked by before Erik reappeared. "The Vicomte has left, and now that I've put my snares back into place he won't be returning – nor will any one else uninvited. Of course, that means that should you try to run, you probably won't make it either." There was a hint of a threat right there.

Christine just nodded. She didn't trust her voice at this juncture.

Erik watched her for a long moment before he strode to the organ and sat, settling himself comfortably. "Would you like to sing, my dear?"

Christine rose and darted to his side, nodding with as much eagerness as she could muster. "That would be lovely."

"Very well." He flipped through a few songs before choosing one that looked well-worn, the words "Der Gang Zum Liebchen: Op. 31, No.3" scrawled across the top, followed by the composer's name. "Your words are on top." The words 'I know' nearly escaped Christine's lips. She bit her tongue.

He began to play, a wicked complicated introduction that looked so difficult that Christine had to pay close attention so that she wouldn't miss her opening. The music caught for just a second, the signal. "_Es glänzt der Mond nieder, ich sollte doch wieder_,"

It was a pretty song, and Christine was glad she could remember basic German pronunciation. "_Zumei nem Liebchen wie mages ihr geh'n?_"

**The moonlight is shining, and I should be riding, my sweetheart to see, how lovely is she?**

This sounded like something Erik would compose, which was probably why he respected the other composer enough to have Christine sing one of the songs. The next two were flatted, which she almost missed. "_Ach weh, sie verzaget, und klaget, und klaget. Dass sie mich nimmer im Leben wird seh'n._" So far, the opening had been simple enough. "_Dass sie mich nimmber im Le – ben,_" The first high note of the song, going to high A. "_Im Leben wird she'n…_" Then it led into a complicated musical interval that Erik pulled off with ease.

**Alas, she's despairing, lamenting, bewailing, that never again in our lives shall we meet, that never, oh never, no in our lives, shall we meet, again.**

Another slight hitch in the music gave Christine her next cue. "_Es ging der Mon unter, ich elite doch munter, und eilte, dass keiner, mein Liebchen ent fürht._" Führt really threw her for a loop, it was a difficult note to hold such a strange vowel sound on. This time hse was ready for the flats, "_Ihr Täubchen o garret, ihr Lüftchen, o schwirret, dass keener mein Liebchen, mein Liebchenent führt, dass keener mein Liebchen, mein Lieb – chen_," This note, too went relatively high. "_Mein Liebchen, mein Liebchen ent fürht._" That last word had a ten beat hold. Which seemed impossible, but Christine did her best.

**The moonlight is fading, I know she's awaiting, I hasten so no one will steal her away. Oh sweetheart, no sighing, my love is undying, and no one will ever come take you away, and no one will ever take you away. For I am riding your way.**

A brief musical interval led into the final words, "_Mein…Lieb…chen…_" She went flat on 'chen', it was at the same F as 'Lieb', which she hadn't expected. "_Mein… Lieb…chen…_" All three of those notes went up, so Christine pulled it off. "_Ent … fürht…_" the final note was an E, and she let it ring out around her.

**My dear one, my dear one away.**

Erik smiled at her. "You did very well, since you were sight-reading it."

Christine grinned back, pleased. Her comments on the earlier fight spilled out of her mouth when her eyes lit on his arm, however. It was still bleeding. "So, Erik," She strolled across the room, finding some bandages and a cloth. "You can cook," She dipped the cloth in the water and came to his side. He shrugged out of his shirt. "You can clean," After removing his bandages, she began to gently run the cold cloth over the wound, carefully cleaning the blood away. "And you can sword-fight." She finished and put the cloth down, beginning to wrap fresh bandages around his wound. "Is there anything you _can't_ do?"

Eying her for a moment, Erik shrugged his good shoulder. "Swim."

Her jaw dropped and she stared at him for a moment to gauge his seriousness. "You live by a lake!"

"True, but I do not live _in_ the lake."

Christine giggled and finished, taking the cloth and what was left of the clean bandages and putting them back. She threw the old bandages in his wastebasket. "Well, then." Was her awkward comment.

Erik took her arm as he rose. "Come, my dear. We're both tired, let us get some sleep." She eyed him nervously as they approached her room, but he didn't try anything. He lay first, waiting for her. When she finished, she too settled into the bed. He wrapped her in a very gentle embrace. She curled into his and closed her eyes.

The last thing she heard was Erik whispering, "I love you, too, Christine."

* * *

"Christine!" Erik shouted from the main room. "We're going to be late!"

"We live _beneath the Opera House_! We need to leave two minutes before curtain!"

"**Christine**!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" She came from her room in an explosion of curls and white lace. "Honestly, Erik. There's no reason to get so frantic!"

"Would you rather we didn't go to the Opera?" He inquired, voice an annoyed grumble, looking impeccable as always in his black ensemble.

"That's a silly question." She grinned at him and he was forced to smile back.

"Come now, my dear." He offered his elbow. She took it, and then vacated the room through one of the many mirrors.

* * *

"I _told_ them to fire the second violin." Erik grumbled as they reclined in box five. The orchestra was playing a gentle overture as the guests made their way to the seats.

"Why?"

"He's abusing his instrument. Even _With_ a warning he _still_ isn't using enough rosin!"

"Perhaps…he doesn't have the ability to get more?"

He smirked at her. "Then I shall leave him some as a gift, perhaps?" He seemed pleased by the idea, "With a note, 'Use this or leave'."

Christine shook her head at him. "Why _do_ you write so many notes? I know how much you hate to write."

"It's more impressive to receive a threatening letter."

"Is it?"

"It's worked so far."

"Well, if you insist." She shrugged and then perked up as the overture began to grow louder, signaling the room to fall silent so the Opera could begin.

_I Puritani di Scozia_, by Vincenzo Bellini was the opera they attended that evening. By the end, Christine was confused and rather surprised at the low quality.

Erik was nearly mad with rage. "They would _dare_? Such a ridiculous…oh, there are going to be some _changes_ around here."

Christine eyed him anxiously. He took her by the arm, his grip trembling with the effort it took to keep from yanking her. She made sure not to slow him down. And was stunned when he took her not into the back passage they'd come from, but straight into the midst of the other opera-goers.

He must really have been furious; he didn't once look around, his darkened eyes narrowed on one purpose, one end. Christine kept up as best she could, stumbling every now and again and pretending that she, too, was oblivious to the people.

To their credit, the other opera patrons didn't even blink as they stormed by.

* * *

The managers were still in their box when the masked man strode in through the door, the most direct entrance they'd ever seen him make, slamming the door open and then shut behind him. They recognized the little slip of a girl staring at them and at the Phantom with wide eyes. "Christine Daaé?"

"Christine Mansart, Monsieurs." She replied, her little voice musical and shy. The managers were fascinated.

"Your attention, if you would, monsieurs?" The Phantom boomed, his voice seeming to be right in their ears.

Firmin and André both jumped, startled. "Y-yes, monsieur. Our apologies." Firmin managed, looking startled.

"That opera you just slaughtered. What were you thinking?" The two stared at the Phantom, who glowered at them.

"We…our new Patron suggested it…" André mentioned hesitantly.

"Yes." Firmin agreed solidly. "Our new Patron chose it."

Erik stepped forward. "The next opera performed here will be _Orfeo ed Euridice._" He snarled, "And Christine will be performing the role of Euridice herself. _I_ will choose the man to play Orfeo. _Is_ that _understood_, monsieurs?"

Two pale faces nodded vigorously. Taking Christine by the arm, Erik swiftly vanished into the shadows.

* * *

"Erik. _Erik. _**Erik**!"

"What!"

"Unless you swear to me that you have made this trek in heels, _slow down_."

Erik turned to watch the brunette rubbing at her feet. "I apologize, my dear."

"It's fine. They're just sore."

A grin crossed his face. Christine's yelp echoed down the hall, swiftly followed by her laughter as Erik began to walk again. She was cradled in his arms, her silk and lace opera-dress spilling all around. "I am not incapable of walking!"

"Yes, but you're interrupting a very good brooding session, so I might as well carry you so you don't tear up your little feet."

"Fine, I won't argue." She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

"_That's_ a first." Erik teased.

"Hey!" She complained, squeezing her arms a bit tighter.

"Careful, you might injure me."

"Stop being mean!" Christine whined.

"I'm not being mean!"

"Are too!"

"I am not!"

"You _are too_!"

_Splash._

Christine leapt up, shrieking at the top of her voice. "That was _cold_!"

"I am not."

"…_That was cold_!"

"Perhaps, but I'm not mean."

"You just threw me in the lake!" Christine cried, feeling like she'd just gained eighty pounds. "_You are mean_!" She slogged to the gondola and let herself fall into it, still complaining under her breath.

Erik's laughter rang all around the fifth level of the opera house as he began to pole them across the lake.

* * *

Christine reclined on the couch with a faint smile, reading a romance novel that had the most adorable characters.

"You're smiling again." Erik commented over his thick novel on stoicism.

"Yes, I am." She replied absently. "These people are just so much fun, this author is really good."

"I'm glad you like it, it seemed like something you might like – that's why I bought it."

Christine glanced up, "And how is your book?"

"Painful." He chuckled at a joke that she didn't get, before settling a marker between the pages and setting his tome down. "It's time for me to start dinner."

"I can-"

He shook his head. "I enjoy making you dinner, my love." And vacated the room. Christine marveled at the relative ease with which he made her blush and returned her attention to her book.

* * *

"Eat." Phantom snapped at Christine, who stared at him in confusion.

"I'm not hungry anymore, Erik. I ate all I could."

"You're insulting my cooking!"

"No, I'm not _hungry_!"

"**Eat**!"

"_**NO!"**_

A pause before Erik smiled at her. "Well, if you're not hungry that's okay." Christine stared in confusion.

* * *

"Will you teach me?" Christine wondered innocently, watching Erik play the organ.

He lifted his head, smiling. "You want to learn? Of course I'll teach you. Come here."

She rose and came to his side, settling carefully at the end of the bench. He took her hands, settling them gently on the heavy ivory keys of the instrument. "This key is 'C'." He pressed her thumb down, "Now from there it goes up and down. To the right it goes D, E, F, G, A, B. And then repeats. To the right it goes B, A, G, F, E, D, C. And repeats. Get it?"

Christine played the scale carefully. "Ah, I see." She liked the explosive sound the organ made.

"Now name them while you play them." Erik instructed.

Christine did as she was told, and he taught her for well over an hour. By the end, she could play a simple song.

He left to get a drink of water, and she continued to practice the song, still reveling in the sounds the organ made.

Two cold hands grabbed her wrists, jerking her hands from the keys. "What are you doing!" Phantom's voice snarled.

Christine had had _enough_ of this. "You taught me. I'm playing the song you wanted me to work on while you got some water. I would _really_ like to know when you're going to make up your mind!"

"…What do you mean?" The hands had let go throughout her tirade. "What are you yelling about, Christine?"

She turned, staring at him in confusion. "Erik. When did you come out here?"

His brow furrowed in confusion, and then irritation as he tried to recall, and then shock when he couldn't "…I…don't remember."

"You came out and snarled at me for touching the organ."

"Did I?"

"And a few nights ago, when I was done eating you went into a rage when I wouldn't eat more – but a few seconds later you were perfectly fine with it."

"I don't recall."

"Exactly! Something is wrong. You're confusing me. I'm going to bed." She groaned and got up, vanishing into her room.

Erik watched her go, now frustrated. They'd been doing so well…why did his mind always make his life miserable for him?


	12. Requiem of the Padre

**My Dearest Reader,**

**We are so sorry for the wait this chapter has wrought. It is an unforgivable offense. Dove's life, unfortunately, came out and ate her attempts to write chapters. Finally, however, after a long night-shift she came home just _brimming_ with enthusiastic creative energy.**

**Blame NaNoWriMo for the lack of updates in November.**

**WARNING: This is a _very_ violent chapter, and has some religious overtones. You have been warned.**

**Oh, Merry Christmas and happy beginning of Hanukkah. **

**Welcome back to the darkness.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**Dove of Night

* * *

**

_Maitre_

_Chapter Twelve_

_Requiem of the Padre_

* * *

"_Our Father, who art in heaven…"_

"Christine, what are you doing?" Erik crossed his arms, eying the girl who knelt in front of the fire, head down, hands clasped tightly in front of her.

"Hallowed be thy name…" 

"Stop it." He advanced on her, "Don't speak such things around me."

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…" 

"Mind me, dammit! _Stop this incessant babbling_!" He felt rage bubbling from the deepest darkest part of him. The side that he didn't want back out, he'd done so well at keeping it away all week.

Christine glanced at him, and her eyes hardened defiantly. She raised her voice, _"On Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread,_"

"I don't want to hurt you, Christine!" He grabbed her shoulder, yanking her to her feet and then all of the way up to her tiptoes to shout into her face, "_Stop praying_!"

"_And f-forgive us o-our tres-tresspasses as we f-forgive those who t-tresspass a-against us…_" Christine whispered, voice trembling, eyes shut tightly now.

Erik felt his rage consume him. This was like blasphemy to him. God didn't love him. God had cursed him with this wretched face, a face that not even a _mother_ could love. If God didn't want him, _he_ didn't want _God_. He threw Christine hard, hearing her hit the ground hard and her cry of pain. God hated him, and he hated God, and Christine wasn't allowed to invoke His presence in Erik's home.

**But God gave you your music.**

**God gave you Christine.**

**Christine.**

Erik came back to himself in an instant, realizing that she was still on the ground, hands clasped but unmoving. Her little face was white. _Damn_.

"Christine?" He knelt beside her, running his fingers through her hair, "Open your eyes, Christine, please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so angry." He stroked her cheek, speaking soothingly, slowly coaxing her eyes open.

Erik sat her up, cradling her carefully. "Are you hurt?"

"No." Christine replied quietly. She shifted slightly, so that she wasn't depending on his benevolence to keep her sitting up. "Erik…I want to go to church. Tomorrow is Sunday. You don't have to go, but _please_ let me."

"No." Erik snapped.

"I am not your prisioner, Erik, I'm your wife! I want to go to Church!"

"You may not!"

"I am not your child, either!"

The two had gravitated to their feet, the discussion turning into a screaming match. Christine stood on her tiptoes now, shouting in Erik's face and he was hunched over, shouting into hers.

"I forbid it!"

"Divine law transcends mundane law and I refuse to be dictated to on this issue! _Keep the Sabbath day holy_. It's a commandment! It's a written law! I am going to go to church!"

"I will not let you!" Erik grabbed her shoulders, fully intending to bodily keep her from trying to go.

The slap echoed around the room for several moments; for once Erik cursed the room's perfect acoustics. He let her go, a hand going to his cheek as he fought the urge to hit her back. At this point he was already in a blind rage; hitting her might _kill_ her.

"Why did you do that?" Was his hissed question, the voice a forced calm that sounded as deadly as he felt.

"I am your wife, not your prisioner or your child. I am a Roman Catholic, and I am going to go to church tomorrow. You don't like that, and it's fine. But you will not keep _me_ from practicing _my_ religion." Christine glared at him for a long moment before her courage failed. "Please." She whispered.

Erik studied her, his hand falling to his side. She looked terribly upset, as though his reply would decide the issue this time. She was not as stubborn as she liked to pretend she was.

"You may." And without another word he swept from the room, glad his cloak was about his shoulders – it was excellent for dramatic effect.

* * *

Sunday had come at its normal pace, Christine was neither eager for it or dreading it. She wore a plain light blue dress. Having no corset made her extremely uncomfortable, but the dress was made to be worn without one as the top of it was so tight that it served as its own type of corset.

"I'm leaving now, Erik."

"Are you going to walk?" He wondered from his armchair where he was sitting and glowering at the fire.

"I…I had intended to, it's only down the street."

Erik made a noncommital noise. Christine could tell how angry he was with her, so she just turned and left silently, head down.

She made her way through the mirror to the outside door, slipping out and closing it carefully. Blinking a few times in the bright early morning sun, Christine started down the street, head down and feeling very vulnerable. She hadn't been outside alone in months, it was an eerie sensation – to know that if something happened she was on her own.

The church was really beautiful, Christine always found it took her breath away – no matter how many times she walked in.

It was very large, with a long mahogany aisle surrounded on both sides by magenta carpeting. The aisle was flanked by two rows of pews, with over forty of the long dark-coloured benches in each row.

The walls stretched up and up, there was never any noticable break into a ceiling, they just eventually met at a point. The colour was an attractive cream, with gold and silver tapestries depicting angels hung artistically.

The altar was tastefully ornate, with a large wooden table and an intricate golden tabernacle. They were in ordinary time, so the altar's main colour code was green – the priest's robes would also be adorned in green.

The church was bustling with activity as ladies and men and children made their way to seats, greeting friends and ignoring enemies – harsh words were not meant to be exchanged in a church. Christine felt the familiarity and a sense of relief at that feeling. It was nice, to be back in church. A very familiar setting. Safe, happy.

She made her way to a side pew, settling in. First on her knees to finish her "Our Father" and then sitting, peering at the most gruesome decoration in the entire church. The Jesus on the Cross depiction; blood rolling down his arms and legs and face, pain in eyes that stared heavenward as if pleading for salvation. Christine had always been frightened by the man on the cross, and felt a deep sense of tragedy for him – even if he was to be raised three days later. No one should be made to die nailed to a peace of wood feeling forsaken and frightened and hurt.

No one should be made to live in a cave while wearing a mask, feeling forsaken and frightened and hurt, either.

Music began, a reedy organ that actually made Christine wince. She was so used to Erik's powerful and resonant organ that this tinny sound surprised her – as did the lack of the player's skill.

_He's rubbing off on me._ Christine thought, bemused, _Soon I'll be threatening violin players with punjabs for not using enough rosin._

She stood with the rest of the congregation to greet the priest's entrance, watching for the man that was to follow the parade of people up the aisle – from the readers to the altar servers to the deacons. Finally, there he stood. The priest. The _padre_. The man of the hour.

Christine liked him. He was a small man – not frail, just not beefy. He walked with his back straight and with an aura of likeable confidence. His head was bald, but he still had thin brown eyebrows. Eyes that were either gray or pale blue eyed the congregation with a welcoming twinkle.

And with that, mass began.

Christine found herself following the familiar routine with absolute ease. Sit, stand, kneel, sit, stand, kneel. She could easily recognize the few newcomers to the church simply by the way they hesitated in their actions and sometimes made the wrong guess.

They were kneeling now, as the priest reverantly began to bless the host, therefore making it symbolic of the 'body' of Christ. Christine dimly recalled Raoul, in their childhood, commenting on how barbaric it was that Catholics ate flesh and blood. She'd had to explain that it was only bread and wine – simply a metaphorical 'flesh' and 'blood'.

"_In the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy spirit, Amen. We-"_

Christine didn't recall there ever being screaming in the holy blessing of the host. She jerked about, eyes widening in horror. People, masks covering their faces with rapiers and knives and muskets in hand running up the aisle, shouting. The congregation was reacting instantly. Screaming, shouting, an angry roar.

She couldn't think, for a long moment. What to do? How to react? Run? Stay?

The father.

They were attacking the priest.

Christine had never dreamed she'd see someone lay the throat of a holy father open. Especially not that of such a sweet and honestly holy man. Disgust filled her, absolute hatred of these men and horror of whatever point they were trying to get across.

She heard animalistic screaming, realizing that she was not the only one giving off the keening wail. Many others were mourning the man angrily. Men were on their feet, charging the attackers. Women, even, were lunging into the foray. Older children were rounding up younger children and throwing hymnals and missalettes at the attackers.

It was a perfectly dreadful mob scene.

Christine made her way up the outside aisle with little problem, as everyone seemed to be focused on fighting in the middle, and knelt beside the priest as he lay on the ground. She knew he couldn't be dead yet – and she was right.

His body was convusling, weak attempts at gasps. He was like a grounded fish that simply couldn't fight any more. Tears gathered in her eyes. Christine felt responsible, as if somehow it was her fault that the mysterious men had chosen this day to attack.

The father looked helpless, now his small size made him look frail. He looked ancient, laying there so peacefully and waiting for his body to give out on him.

Christine knelt next to him, the tears beginning to spill. She was so tired of crying…but now she was not crying for herself. The tears fell for the repose of the father's soul, not to soothe her own internal wounds. Somehow, that made the crying less frustrating.

"_O-our father…_" She began, voice a hoarse whisper, clutching the priest's hand in her own. She could see a muscle in his jaw twitching. Her emotional display was getting to him. Christine knew he'd never seen her before, and she also knew that in that moment he was so grateful for human contact that he didn't mind one bit.

"_Who art in heaven…_

_Hallowed be thy name._

_Thy kingdom come…_

_Thy will be done._

_On earth, as it is in heaven…_"

Tears were coarsing down the man's cheeks, spilling down the lines of his face and making him look even older. Christine's crying increased and she was having a hard time getting the words out.

But she needed this.

She needed to do something that, for once, was not for herself. Something for someone else entirely, with no thought for herself. She was on the altar, exposed to any who might kill her, and in that moment Christine didn't care. She was finally doing something that was in no way selfish. She _needed_ to say this prayer.

"_Give us this day,_

_Our daily bread…_

_And forgive us our trespasses…_"

Something sailed by…either a hand or a book. Christine hoped it was a book.

"_As we forgive those,_

_Who trespass against us._

_And lead us not into temptation…_

_But deliver us from evil…_"

Christine could see the father's awareness fading, the twinkle in his eye dulling. But even as he died, the man reached up to his throat, wet his thumb with his own lifeblood, and made the sign of the cross on Christine's forehead. Annointing her with his blood, as he might have with ashes on Ash Wednesday.

Absolving her.

Thanking her.

"_Amen…_" The priest's lips moved in synch with her, and Christine imagined his voice mingling with hers for the final word. The end of the prayer.

And then, he was gone. Christine had been there when her father had died, she knew what death looked like and felt like. This was not unconciousness, there was simply no one there anymore. The father had passed from the mortal plane.

Her crying had ceased sometime during the prayer, she was now horridly calm. The sign of the cross was still neatly upon her forhead, the blood still damp but cooling upon her skin.

Christine turned, uncertain of what to do now. Hands seized her suddenly, no warning, just snatched her right off her knees. Everything was a blur as she was yanked about, and suddenly her back met something wooden and thin.

A cross?

…Why was she being held against a cross?

…Oh, God.

Christine nearly fainted. Someone held a hammer. Why her? Why not someone else? Was it because she had the cross on her forehead now? Did this anger them? Were they upset that someone had gotten up to the altar and prayed with the priest so that the man hadn't had to die alone?

Oh, God…

Christine feared pain. Many people did, so she wasn't embarassed by it. But it sure didn't make her feel very brave, as she began to whimper while they tried to stretch her arms out. Who were they? Why were they doing this?

What had this church ever done to them?

The cold iron of the nail pressed against her palm and Christine sobbed, closing her eyes tightly. This was the stuff of nightmares, this wasn't supposed to happen to good people! She was in _church_ dammit!

"Hold 'er still!" She heard a rough voice snarl, and hands pinned her more fiercely against the rough-hewn cross.

What had they used for it? Pews, perhaps?

What were they going to do once they'd nailed her to the cross?

Christine didn't want this to happen on _so_ many levels. She was impressed by Jesus' sacrifice. Often, as any person did, she had wondered if she would be brave enough to do the same.

Now she knew. She was _not_.

The cold nail pressed against her palm again, this time more firmly.

No. 

_No._

_No._

She heard a faint brush of air, and then agony exploded in her right hand. Dimly, ever so dimly, Christine thought that Jesus had been nailed through the wrists – silly people.

That thought, of course, was drowned out by her screaming.

Blood spurted, her eyes had instinctively flown open at the fierce pain.

Christine had been hurt a lot – as a child she had a penchant for falling and such, and as a young adult she was in Erik's care. However, she had never felt such pain. Her arm had gone numb now, mercifully. Shock was beginning to set in on the limb.

She was sure several small bones had broken. Perhaps she'd bleed to death before they could do it again.

Christine saw that the members of the congregation were trying to get to her. She was on the altar still, the cross was leaned against the wall underneath Jesus' cross. Christine glanced up, staring at the man's expression. He looked almost peaceful, now. Like he had accepted his fate.

She could never have done that.

Christine sobbed harder, feeling them pulling her other arm taut. She felt the cold iron pressing against her palm and fought, struggling hard. Something hit her face, it felt like the back of a hand. Her lip split – that was a small pain, compared to what she was about to feel.

She watched the masked person wielding the hammer draw it back once more.

Oh, God. PLEASE! 

"**HOLD**!" The voice thundered, it did not shout – it _thundered_. The walls shook, and bones rattled.

The entire church fell deathly silent, but for Christine's sobbing.

"**You damned pathetic, useless imbeciles!**" The owner of the voice was still thundering, and didn't seem to be planning on stopping anytime soon. "**A WOMAN! You dare to hurt a woman? And MY woman, even?**"

Erik?

Christine felt her heart flutter, which made her hand spurt a small mist of blood once more. She sought him, eyes wide.

Never, in all of her life, had a voice been such a relief. She had never wanted to kiss Erik as badly as she did at that moment. She wanted to kiss him and cry and beg him to not let her talk him into letting her go anywhere alone _ever_ again.

She had been so afraid…but now, now she didn't feel anything but relief.

The familiar masked man was storming up the aisle. Funny, he thundered and stormed. In fact, at the moment it looked like he was going to start shooting off lightening bolts. He was, in a word…or three…_royally pissed off_.

The congregation members were scrambling out of his way, and he went through them without stopping. Any that were still in his way when he got to them somehow ended up very much _not_ in his way.

The dark-masked men tried to get in his way, but Erik effortlessly threw them back, his half-white-masked face absolutely enraged. Christine had seen him angry. She'd seen him livid and furious. But she had never seen such animalistic rage. It looked as though he was going to tear her aggressor's throat right from his neck.

The man before her, for his part, dropped the hammer.

Those holding her let go and backed off like she had suddenly become a vat of boiling oil.

Erik's punjab was out and around the throat of the man who'd driven the nail through Christine's hand within the blink of an eye.

"**You scum.**" He was still thundering, projecting his voice right into the man's face and causing the masked creature to cower most interestingly. Christine's ears were ringing. "**You DARE**!" He was so angry, that he couldn't even manage anything eloquent. Twelve on the entrance, eight on the monologue.

He tore the man's mask away. The cowering creature was dark-haired and dark eyed, with a skin of medium tone. Christine could have passed him on the street and never known. He was disturblingly young for such a sadistic act as the one he'd been perpetrating and looked pathetic. His face was turning blue.

"Stop." Christine whispered hoarsely. The plea was quiet, but got Erik's attention instantly. "Don't kill him."

"What?" He did not thunder at her. "What do you mean don't kill him? He just…" Erik eyed her hand.

"I will not be responsible for there being more death in this holy place." Christine whispered, "I would like very much to kill the man myself, but I won't. I can't. And I won't and can't let you, either."

Erik stared at her for a moment, before the punjab released the man and dissapeared back into his cloak. He strode to her, gently grasping her waist, "Ah, my dear – I shall never understand you." He eyed her hand for a moment. "I am not sure how I shall go about this…"

Christine bit her lower lip, but immediately stopped that when the broken skin ached and blood started again. It tasted strongly metallic.

Erik reached up, and broke the side of the wood that her hand was nailed to from the rest of the cross, frowing. "This is going to be incredibly painful, my love. And I would prefer you did not have to go through it with an audience." He scooped her into his arms, carefully settling the wood so as not to jostle her hand.

Without furthur ado, the dark knight and his damsel vanished from the cathedral, leaving behind some very distressed attackers and some _very_ angry and vindicative congregation members.

* * *

"You need to stay still."

"I am."

"Good. Please don't scream."

Erik slipped the metal bar between the skin of Christine's hand and the nail. There was a split in the middle, one he'd added as an afterthought, that the nail slipped into. "Close your eyes."

Christine understood. He didn't want her to have to see her ravaged hand. Seeing a hole in the middle of one's appendage must be unnerving. So she did as commanded, ready to obey just about anything that came out of his mouth after that rescue.

There was a flash of pain, and a screeching noise from the iron against the wood. Then, her hand was free. Without thinking, Christine opened her eyes.

Hands were _not_ meant to gain holes. The hole was almost an inch in diameter, thick and bloody. There was still some flesh clinging, some tendons criss-crossing the middle and a vein or two…

Erik put his hands in between her eyes and hand. "What did I tell you?" He chided fiercely.

Christine immediately closed her eyes again. She felt him working with her still-numb hand. She didn't know what he was doing, but eventually he wrapped her hand snugly in a cloth bandage and allowed her to open her eyes again.

"Please refrain from removing this yourself." Erik murmured.

"Alright."

They sat in awkward silence for a moment.

Christine felt pressure building in her stomach, a pressure that was begging for release.

"Well, then. I shall-" Erik stood.

Christine leapt to her feet and wrapped her arms about his neck, kissing him upon the lips with a chaste press of her own lips and then burying her face against his chest as she began to sob.

"Ah, there it is." Erik whispered, "I knew you couldn't be brave forever. My poor little dove. It's alright. There, there – shhh." His tone was low and soothing, a rumble in his chest that Christine could feel.

He led her to the rug in front of the fire and sat them both down, stroking the top of her head and whispering his words of comfort. Christine curled up on his lap, still sobbing.

She had never been so happy to see Erik. She had never been so afraid. She had never felt such pain.

She was exhausted.

* * *

"Shhh, I'm here. It's okay, I'm not going to leave you." Erik soothed, knowing she was very close to hysteria. He'd hoped she'd stop trying to be brave soon – a mental breakdown was the last thing she'd needed.

He thanked whatever deity had convinced him that going to the church at the moment he did was a good idea. Of course, he wished the thought had come sooner – but he'd take what he could get.

She was safe, alive, and relatively unharmed. Once more in his protection. And now, at this moment, Erik was certain that Christine was his. He'd seen the look on her face. The relief coupled with the realization of a private belief, deep within, that he'd come.

It was nice, to be the knight in shining armor for once.

Oh, dear gods. What they'd nearly done to her. All for the sake of some silly political movement. His love. They'd _dared_ to hurt _his_ Christine.

A faint mewl of protest from the crying girl in his lap reminded him that he didn't need to clutch her shoulders that tightly. Erik continued to stroke her hair, holding her close with his other arm. That soothed her again and she rested against him, her tears beginning to slow as she drifted off.

"My darling." He whispered, "I will never let anything hurt you again, I swear." He kissed the top of her head, and felt her relax even more.

Such trust she had in him, now. Erik felt his heart swell, with pride and a sense of responsibility. Christine was his at a price – he couldn't just _say_ she was his, he had to carry out his duty. He had shirked, allowing her to venture out and go to church alone – and look what _that_ had brought.

Erik sat with Christine in his lap all night long, lulling her to sleep and calming her when she awoke with nightmares. He would never let anyone hurt her again.


	13. Mocking Birds Don't Sing

**My Dearest Reader:**

**We recently received a graphic threat as to what would begin to occur should an update for this work not immediately be posted. Therefore, as we do not have the energy to be wordy, presenting: Chapter Thirteen. We apologize for the wait.**

**(Note: After several months of ignoring this error, I've now fixed the date. Sorry it took me so long, and thank you to everyone who noticed.)**

**Your Humble Servant,**

* * *

**Maître**

_Chapter Thirteen_

* * *

_**Twenty-Sixth of November, year of eighteen eighty-nine**_

_Christine hasn't been able to sleep through the night since the attack. She tosses and turns, and when she finally dozes off she whimpers until shrieking herself awake. I have been seriously contemplating giving her a shot of morphine to calm her, but I am not sure of the dosage to give someone as frail as she, therefore I have rejected that idea._

_She's afraid of everything, the smallest noise makes her flinch. She hasn't regained full use of her hand, moving her fingers seems to hurt her immensely. I have only allowed her to see the wound a few times, and when she does get a glimpse her eyes seem to shadow and she looks lost._

_I wish to any god who might listen that I had killed them when I had the chance. No political statement was worth this. No man's ideals are worth __**my**__ Christine. _

_I fear for her well-being._

_She refuses to eat, she barely consents to drink. It has only been a few weeks since the incident and she is already almost too weak to rise from bed in the morning._

_Sometimes I want to just yank her up and force her to stop hiding in her shell, but I have known my Christine long enough to know that if I do that I will lose her completely, her mentality is too fragile right now for anything more than coddling._

_Christine has not wished to see her friend, the little ballet brat, despite my repeated attempts to bring them together. She is prone to fits of rage, tears, and anxiety._

_I do not know what to do. For now I must do what I know, and hope that the Phantom does not force his way out. I can feel him just beneath the surface, trying to convince me with his lulling angel-voice that he can bring my listless creature back to life._

* * *

Christine was screaming again. It was hard to imagine that, considering her dilapidated state, she could even manage such a piercing noise. Nonetheless, she was lying in the bed – right where Erik had left her – head tilted slightly to the side and brows furrowed…screaming.

Erik raced into the room. He knew instinctively that she was in yet again in the throes of a nightmare, but he still panicked every time he heard her gentle voice cracking with panic.

He came to her side and took her by the shoulders, pulling her gently upright. She went like a ragdoll, so weak she could only flop against him. It made him cringe. Her screaming stopped as soon as she was safely in his embrace. Christine refused to let him just sleep in the bed with her, and yet his embrace was the only thing that would calm her down.

"Shush…shush…I'm here…" Erik soothed, stroking his hand tenderly through what had become a tangled mess of curls atop her head.

Christine reached up, grasping his shirt gently with her tiny fingers, sighing as she settled her cheek against his shoulder. "I had the dream again."

Erik bit back the impulse to snap that he knew, that she had that same damn dream _every_ damn night. Instead, he just stroked her cheek, "Tell me about it." She usually calmed down once she talked about the dream, even if it was the same one over and over.

Christine smiled ever-so-slightly, "But I've already told you about it a dozen times."

"Go for the Baker's dozen." Erik retorted gently.

She sighed, "I was in the dark room…" He nodded encouragingly, "And there was a voice. It was like…it was familiar. Like an evil voice that I was used to hearing – like your Phantom. Only it…it wasn't him. His voice is smoother. This voice was rough, it almost hurt to hear each word."

Erik nodded thoughtfully, she'd never gone that into detail about the voice before. It wasn't a familiar description, so he figured it might have been someone she'd heard when she was younger. Perhaps it belonged to one of the friends of the lecherous Joseph.

"And I could only hear him, and he was saying something – but I didn't know what he was saying. It was…I think he was asking for you. He wanted to know where you were. He wanted me to hand you over."

Erik nodded patiently.

"And I refused, and I realized that I was tied by the wrists and ankles to a chair. The owner of the voice hit me – he had blonde hair. White-blonde, almost silver. Not the old sort, just the pale baby-blonde colour."

Ah, another fresh detail.

"And then I tried to get away but I was tied and it was…I don't remember. I just remember you holding me." Christine sighed. "It always ends like that, huh? None of that is a reason to shriek. I'm so sorry I keep waking you up."

"I think you're hungry, _mon ami_."

"I don't want to eat."

Erik sighed, "Christine, it has been weeks. You _must _eat. Perhaps these nightmares are a subconscious manifestation of a physical ailment."

"No." She tried to draw away.

Okay, that was it. "_Mon ange_, I have been _very_ patient. It has been at least two weeks since you have eaten. You may not mind committing accidental suicide, but _I_ mind for you. You will eat, and you will do it now. You are hungry, and you are wasting away." His voice got louder toward the end, which he'd hoped to avoid as the moment he went over a whisper she cringed away.

"I-"

"I was your saviour, _ma petite_. Remember? I came in, and I took you away from the horrid people hurting you. Me. I do not want you hurt. I do not want to hurt you. I don't want to force you to eat. But just as I rescued you from them, I will gladly rescue you from yourself."

"No." Christine's voice was unsteady now.

"Yes." He scooped her from the bed, cringing slightly at how easy it was. Too easy. She was too damn scrawny. She made a faintly indignant noise, but didn't try to fight him. Erik carried her into the main room, and sat her down in his chair.

A quick trip to the kitchen yielded bread and cheese. Not exactly a stupendous meal, but it would get her started.

When he got back out Christine was trying to flee the chair. He set the plate down on the table beside it and picked her up about the waist, sitting and placing her on his lap. "Stop being foolish, _ange_."

"I don't want to eat!" She argued.

"Yes, you do." Erik picked up a slice of cheese and offered it to her. She glared at him. "Eat." He murmured gently. She was not to be goaded. "Christine, _eat_." His voice got louder, but this time she didn't flinch.

Getting angry, Erik pressed the cheese against her lips, "Do not make me force this down your throat, damn you. **Eat**!" The last word came out a bit more thunderous than expected and Christine jumped about two inches, her mouth opening in a gasp.

He slipped the cheese inside and clapped his hand over her mouth. "Chew."

She gave him a look that clearly translated into something Erik didn't want to believe she'd actually think at him.

"Christine. You are not going to kill yourself by being an idiot. _Eat your damn food._" He didn't roar this time, but he definitely went up a decibel. Then, in a whispered addition, "Please."

She stared up at him. Then, to Erik's absolute relief, she chewed the cheese and swallowed it obediently. When he took his hand from her mouth she reached for another slice.

Her hands were shaking so badly that she nearly dropped it, so Erik took it from her. Oh, this was going to be pleasant. He pressed the new slice to her lips. She sighed, but resigned herself to the fact that she couldn't even stand up without help and opened her mouth.

* * *

She was getting her colour back. She still had nightmares, but she was calming down faster after being awoken. Erik sat behind Christine on the bed, his back against the pillows with her small frame braced between his knees. She'd only been eating for a week, and already she looked one hundred percent better.

She'd just taken a bath, so her hair hung long and damp down her back. Erik ran a brush through it carefully, taking his time. Brushing her hair was oddly therapeutic for him, he found it was very relaxing. Not to mention it made him feel almost as if he were doing something very intimate. Christine was one of those people who didn't like just anyone touching her hair, and at the moment only he had the honour.

"Can we go outside?" Christine requested suddenly.

Erik startled just a bit at the break in silence and the request. "Outside? But _ange_, it's dark out."

"I know, I want to see the moon." She tilted her head back and smiled up at him pleadingly.

That smile nearly undid him, and within three seconds Erik had agreed and was standing to lead her outside.

Christine went along cheerfully, and as they stepped outside Erik's breath caught in his throat.

Oh, God. She was beautiful, almost ethereal in the pale moonlight as it seemed to shine its silver rays only upon her. She wore a long black nightgown, the same he'd put her in while she was ill – she'd liked it, so she still wore it sometimes – and her skin was almost as white as the disk in the sky above.

Erik had never felt such guilt. She should not have been out here, beaming as she walked about in the garden at night. She should have been inside asleep, running out at the first light of day to play in the day lit gardens.

He was a monster.

Phantom growled and stomped his foot, which made Christine freeze in her examination of the pond and turn slowly about. Her eyes were wide in her pale face as she looked over at him worriedly.

Erik forced a smile to cross his face as he tried to stuff his wicked half deeply within, "Sorry. I had an ant on my leg – I can't stand the feel."

Christine's obvious panic subsided and she grinned at him, turning back to kneel and skim her fingers over the water.

* * *

She felt the familiar arms wrap around her waist. Erik pressed his cheek to hers. "I love you." Erik whispered, and then he was gone.

Christine, startled, turned from the pond and looked around. He wasn't there. She couldn't see him, he had simply vanished.

Frightened, she darted to the door and tried it, the fingers of her good hand shaking. The door was locked, and when she tugged harder at the handle it came away in her hand, leaving her facing a door that was absolutely invisible now. She was panicking. "Erik? _Erik_? Where are you?"

Tears came to her eyes as she sought him frantically. Why had he left her? He'd just said he loved her and…gone! She didn't want to be alone. Oh, God, don't say she had to be alone again. "Angel? Erik? Someone?" The tears began to fall.

"_Erik_!" She screamed at the top of her lungs, shaking violently as she ducked her head and started to cry, panicking. "Don't leave me alone!"

His embrace came the instant, pulling her close to a warm chest that was so familiar she could have drawn it. Christine buried her face against that chest, shaking.

"I was trying to set you free, my bird." Erik whispered soothingly, "It was trying to let you go back to your light. Oh, don't cry. Shush, shush. It's okay." He smoothed his hands down her face, erasing her tears gently, "I'm here. I'm here. It's alright."

* * *

Her panic had been _very_ unexpected. Erik was glad he had simply vanished from sight instead of actually leaving. She'd nearly gone into hysterics. He should have felt happy, knowing she needed him. He actually felt horridly guilty. This wouldn't do.

"You don't need me, little one. _Ange_, stop crying. Listen to me." She was slow to comply, but eventually did raise her face to his, eyes in sharper relief from the tears. They were so pretty. So damn helpless. "Christine, you don't need me. Remember? You want to leave." When she started to shake her head, Erik caught her face between his hands and forced her to still.

"Don't argue, precious. You know you want to leave, and I'm trying to make the path clear for you. I don't want you trapped in my world. I'm doing what I should have done many months ago."

He pressed his cheek to hers once more, "I am letting you go because I love you. And you will go, because you love me." And then he pushed her away gently, stepping back. Christine reached out for him and he pushed her hands down. "No, _ange_. Go."

"Erik, no! I-"

"Christine. Go." He hissed and with a slightly dramatic – hey, he _did_ grow up underneath an opera house after all – twirl of his cape he slipped into the shadows. Erik left this time, not wanting to hear her cry. If she screamed for him again, he doubted he could let her go once more.

* * *

He had left her. Christine had heard Meg cursing Erik's name over and over again. She wanted to argue, to claim that Erik was just trying to help her. Trying to be kind and free her from the shadows.

But, by now, her skin had become so deprived of sunlight that just stepping outside in the bright sunlight was too harsh and burned her skin almost instantly. His good intentions were for naught, as she was the mortal equivalent of a vampire at this point.

Christine was sad, and afraid still. She jumped at everything, and cried at the drop of a hat. Her night terrors had only gotten worse, she could barely sleep anymore. Mirrors only made her cringe, as her hair refused to untangle and she had dark smudges underneath her eyes.

Despite all of that, Christine at least kept a steady eating schedule – Erik's impassioned plea that she not starve herself had struck a deep chord and she kept eating just for him. Night terrors, sudden fits of anxiety, sudden fits of hysteria, sudden fits of crying…but at least she was well-fed.

"Come on, Christine, sing us something!" The young ballet brats pleaded. She had volunteered to watch them for the evening, as their usual chaperone was ill with a stomach ailment.

"I don't really like to sing all that much." She replied quietly, sitting on the bed she was to pretend to sleep in, knees drawn to her chin underneath her white nightgown.

"You do too! You sang in that opera, with the chandelier! Your voice is _so_ pretty!" One of the older girls cooed.

Christine flinched at the mention and took a shaky breath. Honestly, she needed therapy to get control of herself.

She'd tried several different methods of getting to Erik's home, but he'd either blocked the ways or locked the ways. She was effectively on the other side of the looking glass – in her room this was especially true, as the catch no longer worked to open the mirror. He'd really, honestly, not wanted her to come back.

It would have been better if she could have left the opera house, but that was impossible as she had nowhere else to go. No family…and no self-respecting opera house would give another house a Prima Donna that could potentially make them so many francs – if she'd only open her mouth and sing.

"Chrissy?" One of the younger girls – actually, the youngest, being only six – inquired gently. "Please sing for us."

"I'm sorry, girls, I really don't think so. You need to go to bed now." Christine attempted.

The girls steamrolled over that effort without breaking a sweat, "Not until you sing for us! Then we'll sleep. Sing! Sing!"

Christine tried several times to argue, but one could only attempt to dissuade a gaggle of shouting ballet dancers for so long.

Finally, throwing her hands up in the air, she sighed, "Fine! I will sing. But it's your own faults if you're sorely disappointed. I haven't trained in months and I haven't sung in just as long."

The girls just squealed and leapt from their beds, running to crowd around hers, kneeling and standing, some crawling onto the bed and staring up at her.

Okay, that was actually sort of creepy. Christine just smiled weakly.

She sighed and took a deep breath, shifting her shoulders back a bit to open up her chest and diaphragm area.

She started low in her range, almost in defiance to Erik, as if this would somehow teach _him_ a lesson.

"_You were once…my one, companion…you were all that mattered…_"

Already, barely a few words into the song that she was sort of adlibbing, Christine could feel her upper range pushing for freedom.

"_You were once…a friend, and father…then my world was shattered…_"

Her voice went up of its own volition, ignoring her now, "_Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near. Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed – somehow you would be here…_"

She was crying again. The song sounded wrong, as if she was just cutting and pasting bits from another version, but she didn't care. It had to come out. "_Try to forgive…teach me to live – why can't the past just __**die**__? No more __**memories**__ no more silent tears. No more gazing across the wasted years…_"

The girls had backed off, fleeing to their own beds. Christine saw that they were crying, as well. Apparently she'd accidentally inherited Erik's ability to draw others into the web of his emotional turmoil using only voice.

"_Help me to say…goodbye…_"

A sob escaped, louder than the others, echoing the room, "_Help me to say…good__**bye**_…" Her voice went up again, forcing the last note to be high in pitch and making it ring throughout the room.

That was when she realized Madame Giry was standing in the doorway with a look of horror and pity on her face.

The mistress came forward, and gently took Christine's hand. The girl stood with her, and Giry gently hugged her. "Go out, Christine. The moon is full, the night is dark – you will not be burned. Go out. Walk it off."

Christine stared up at the woman with a shudder of sadness. She nodded obediently and left the room and then, after changing into a plain pale blue gown, she left the opera house and walked the trail leading into the nearby woods. The woods were the only things between the opera and the cemetery.

She didn't want to go to the cemetery. Sometimes a girl just didn't want to visit her dead father's mausoleum. This was one of those times.

She just wanted to walk the woods.

Christine took a deep breath of the night air and was startled by the scent of heavy cologne. What was that? It wasn't Erik – he didn't have to shave, so he didn't have cologne.

She turned slowly in a circle, unable to see the opera house or the cemetery – she'd have panicked if she didn't know that she wasn't lost. Christine had walked these woods dozens of times. Just over the upcoming hill she'd be able to see the cemetery again.

"Hello?" She heard something snap to her left and whipped her attention that way. Then she heard a similar noise right behind her.

Confused, Christine turned that way and glanced from one direction to the other. "Is someone there?"

And then there was a flurry. Noises from the left, the right, front, back, over her head, underneath her feet, everywhere. She turned one direction, then the other, then back again, panicking.

What was going on?

Oh, geez, something was wrong.

Christine had enough time to open her mouth to scream, taking one step back toward the opera house, before something heavy connected with the back of her head. The last sound she heard was a metallic ringing and then nothing but the crunch as she landed hard on the ground.

* * *

Her hand hurt. The wound was healing, but it didn't appreciate being trussed to a chair. Her other hand hurt, too, but not nearly as bad. She shifted slightly in the chair, and felt the same bonds biting into her ankles.

It _hurt_.

Christine blinked several times, slow butterfly-wing flutterings. She lifted her head, flinching as her sore neck resisted for a moment. Finally she managed to look around, still blinking rapidly which distorted the world around her.

Not that there were a whole bunch of things to distort. The chair was in the middle of a pitch black room, the only light coming from a few flickering candles.

Christine glanced down, noting that the ropes around her wrists were tied so firmly that she'd chafed herself into bleeding while unconscious. Her shoulder was covered in blood, which immediately made a piercing headache dart across the back of her head.

She did the most intelligent thing she could under the circumstances, "Hello? Is anyone in here?"

She didn't expect an answer, so when one came Christine nearly had a heart attack. "Yes, _Ma belle pêche._" The voice was a harsh one that she recognized from her dreams. This, too, nearly gave the poor girl a heart attack.

My beautiful peach. She didn't even know this man – where did he get off calling her pet names?

Probably the same place Erik did. But whatever.

The owner of the voice stepped into the light, and she realized that she had seen him before. Nothing too huge, she'd never spoken to him, but she recognized him from the times he'd been hovering around the opera house.

Why would she have nightmares about him?

Perhaps because he was _creepy_.

"Wh…what do you want with me?" Christine inquired a bit more shakily than she'd have liked.

"I want the Phantom. And he will come, so be a good little girl and stay quiet. I'd rather not kill you – well, hell, who'm I kidding? I'd love to kill you. But not until I've killed the Phantom. And if you're a good little one until he gets here, maybe I won't make it hurt as much."

Christine paled, staring up at him.

* * *

The pounding startled him. Only one person knew that entrance. Erik made his way to the trapdoor he'd let Giry and the doctor in through and pushed it open, "Yes, Madame?" He inquired politely.

"Christine," the madame panted, holding up an envelope.

_Monsieur Le Fantôme_.

Erik narrowed his eyes and snatched it, drawing out a neatly folded letter.

_Monsieur, I have your songbird. _

Something rattled and Erik flipped the envelope over his palm, tapping it. A ring fell out, the gold covered in blood. It was Christine's ring…and that was her blood.

Fury turned his eyes nearly black, and Phantom stepped neatly back into control, stuffing Erik in a box and locking it.

Fingering the Punjab hidden still within his cloak, Phantom nodded politely to Giry, slipped the ring into his pocket, tossed the letter, and leapt from the trapdoor. He walked through the opera house without noticing the stares.

He had one five words to work with, and considering that the aggressor had already made Christine bleed – he didn't have long to figure out where she was.

There was going to be hell to pay.


	14. Vendetta

**My Dearest Reader;**

Ah…oops? We really didn't forget about any of your, nor did we forget about this story. We've been trying to come up with ways to write ourselves out of the corner we just wrote ourselves into. It's like painting a floor and at the end realizing you just put yourself in the corner and now you have to creatively dance about to get out and answer the ringing phone.

**We've also been busy with our website with work, and with …um…writer's block. Trying to top that last chapter will be difficult, as we liked it quite a lot.**

**But, without further ado – and a promise to try and update more – we present you with chapter fourteen!**

**Your Humble Servant, **

**DoN**

* * *

Maitre

Chapter Fourteen

Vendetta

* * *

"Please untie me," Christine pleaded softly, staring up at the man as he made his way around the room. What he did in there, she wasn't sure, as she could only see her circle of light. How _he_ could see enough to do _anything_ was beyond her.

"No." Came the final, gruff, response.

"Please?" She whispered, tears filling her eyes, "I'm so sore and stiff, I keep bleeding because these ropes chafe every time I breathe, and there is nowhere I can go. I promise I'll stay in the chair, _please_?"

"No, shut up." Snapped his voice again, no pity.

"Please…" Christine whispered, distressed. She'd thought _Erik_ was cruel. At least he'd tried not to hurt her too much.

"No, speak again and I'm going to break your jaw!" He snarled, and this time Christine did not argue again. It had been at least two days since her kidnapping, her captor had not fed her or offered her water. She was tired, hungry, thirsty, and in pain.

Please, hurry, Erik… 

God, she hoped he was coming for her.

* * *

"You will tell me everything you know, or I will first tear this bar apart, and then I will tear _you_ apart!" Phantom snarled, the pudgy bartender dangling from his unyielding grasp.

"Stop, stop, please, monsieur! I know nothing! I know nothing of your girl! Please, I will keep my eyes and my ears open!" He was close to tears. Pathetic little man. Phantom let him drop to the ground. "I will, I will!" The man affirmed.

"You had damn well better." And with that, he whirled with that dramatic twirl of the cape – the flair for such a thing was prevalent in both personalities – and stormed out of the pub.

Of course, Phantom didn't really think the man knew anything, but he was working on getting information so he needed to put the word out there. And pubs were a common center of information – plied with a few drinks, most men seek a willing ear. That's where the bartender comes in.

Heading down the street, Phantom was unaware of the funny looks he received…well, he ignored them and snarled at small children that pointed. He didn't really mind being out in the open, it was Erik that had a problem with that.

That had been the last pub he needed to visit. He'd already spoken to and paid off the owners of most of the brothels in the city, he had also 'persuaded' many storeowners to let him know should they hear or see anything…he just needed to sit back and wait for the roots he'd planted around the city to bring him what he needed to know.

Ha, as if the Phantom had that sort of patience. All of that was a contingency plan. He wanted his Christine back _now_, thank you. Stepping into an alley, he paused to rifle through the contents of his cloak for a moment, coming out with a small notebook.

Within the pages were many things – notes to himself, things to remember, lists. One list, in particular, was especially interesting.

Enemies 

-Joseph Bouquet – Killed

-Madame Giry – Befriended

-Meg Giry – Befriended

-Vicomte DeChagney – Killed (scratched out, replaced with) Vanished

-Jean-Claude Delacour – Vanished

-Richard Bumaux – Killed

-Micha Donou – Vanished

-Roulen – Killed

-Nadir – Befriended

Well, out of that list – the only possibilities were Jean-Claude and Micha. But seeing as Jean-Claude weighed about as much as Christine, there wasn't much likelihood he could have overpowered her.

Which left Micha. The man was brawny, incredibly strong, ferocious, and definitely had a vendetta against the Phantom. Seeing as Micha's little brother had been Richard, it made sense that the man would steal someone close to Phantom and attempt to lure him into a trap to glean revenge.

A bit complicated, as Micha had never struck Phantom (or Erik, for that matter) as a terribly bright man…but still plausible. And he was the only one with motive, as Raoul wouldn't have hurt Christine and Jean-Claude had simply had a difference of opinion with Phantom.

Tucking the list back into the pocket, Phantom went to speak to Micha's mother.

* * *

"Madame Donou," Phantom cooed, making his way into the old woman's dimly lit room with perfect confidence.

She wouldn't know him, and even if she did – she was blind, so she wouldn't recognize him. Therefore, he could draw her under his voice spell before she could resist.

"Yes?" Blind, old, crippled…and damn lucid. "Do I know you, monsieur?"

"Not ye- no, madame. Your son never introduced us." Phantom murmured, sitting beside her and patting one of the papery hands to let her know where he was.

"Ah. So you know Micha?" This seemed to raise him several notches in her book, "Lovely boy, isn't he? I'm so proud of him."

Ahhh, good. Then she knew something. "Yes, madame, he and I are old friends. Unfortunately…I haven't been able to find him to reconnect, we seem to have lost touch. You wouldn't know where I could find him…perhaps an address to which I could send a letter?" Phantom purred.

"I'm afraid I don't just give such information out, monsieur. I could tell him you were here, perhaps give him your name and address?"

"Oh, please, madame? I would certainly like to surprise him." Phantom pressed, growing frustrated already.

"No." The madame replied firmly, staring at the wall – well, pointing her eyes at the wall. "I will not."

Phantom growled, and was about to punjab the old hag when Erik whispered from the box he was locked in. A logical and smart suggestion. Sometimes the fool was useful. "Well, I'm sorry to bother you." He rose, moving loudly to the door, opening and slamming it, and then using his ventriloquism to mimic his footsteps receeding down the hall.

He watched the lady lie back down and crept soundlessly to the most shadowed corner of the room, sitting silently, and waiting.

Now he was doing something worthwhile. Why on earth hadn't he gone to Micha's mother first? He just needed to sit and wait for the man to come visit his mother.

* * *

"Please…" Christine moaned softly, "My wrists are burning, it hurts so much. I swear I won't even stand up, just untie my wrists. Please _please_!" Her injured hand was aching terribly, making her squirm and sob at the pain.

"You annoying little brat, _silence_!"

"NO!" Christine shouted back, losing her temper, "I had a metal spike driven through one of my hands just weeks ago. It _hurts_, it is probably getting infected, and I want you to _untie me!_ I have offered a perfectly reasonable promise, _please_!"

There was a long, long, pause. Finally, Christine heard footsteps. Sharp pain darted across her cheek as she was slapped, "_I said to be silent!_" And then the footsteps stormed away again.

Christine hunched down and started to sob, frightened and hurting. _Please, Erik, please…please…_

* * *

Every time that damn door opened, his heart leapt to his throat and he looked to see a nurse coming in to either check vitals or bring the woman her food. Phantom was growing frustrated, and about to give up on the second day when finally, _finally_, the door was opened by Micha.

The man strode in and went right to his mother, hugging her and complimenting her current state. Phantom rose, and slipped out the open door at his back, loudly stomping his way back to the room.

"Ah, Micha!" He cried, stepping within and going to the man, clapping him hard on the back, "I didn't expect you to be here! Thought I'd come and try to convince your mother to give me your address. You're looking well!"

Micha's face paled, his eyes narrowing. Obviously this contingency had not been expected. Phantom smirked. Swallowing hard, the man glanced at his mother, "Mama, I will be right back, I would just like to give the monsieur my address so he might not bother you anymore."

"Alright, Micha." The woman sat back contentedly, and the two men stepped from the room.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" Micha demanded, his voice a low growl.

Phantom smirked at him, head tilted. "Looking for you. You took my Christine, did you not?"

"Your…who?" Micha wondered, genuine confusion on his face.

Well, _hell_.

"Never mind," The master of reading emotion snarled, shoving the man, "Go be with your mother." With that he stormed away, snarling and hissing and generally having a fit. All of this wasted, two _whole days_ wasted! _DAMMIT!_

* * *

A note was waiting for him when he got home.

_You're taking too long. Perhaps you aren't smart enough to figure it out alone. I'm sure Ernest Hemmingway didn't have any problems ringing._

What. The hell. Did that mean?

Phantom paced the room, biting the pointer nail of his left hand. Hangnails, while painful, were excellent for gnawing on during the thought process. "Ringing. Ernest Hemmingway…" His library had yielded a compendium of poems and stories by the man, but for the life of him Phantom could not figure out what that stupid message meant.

"What does RINGING have to do with…me…" It clicked. Phantom flipped to one of the last poems – _For Whom The Bell Tolls_.

Oh.

Well, now he had to figure out what to do with that information. No problems ringing…that had to mean something else… there was a belltower just down the street with a snapped rope so the bells could not be rung.

That must be it. The irony had to be a part of this.

Or Phantom was going to feel pretty foolish.

Folding the note, he slipped his cloak about his shoulders and tucked the message within, leaving the Opera House once again and running down the street to the belltower, bursting within and running up the winding staircase to the very top where – lo and behold – another note was taped to the wall.

_Ah, so you aren't all muscle and no brain. Let me make this easy for you, all the same. My name is Cimber Manai. Come and find me, Phantom._

Oh, he would. Cimber Manai…that name wasn't familiar in the _slightest_.

"What the hell did I do to _you_?" Phantom sighed and ran down the stairs again, shoving by anyone that got in his way. He needed to find this 'Cimber' before it was too late…and he knew just where to look.

* * *

"Please." Christine whispered, repeating the word over and again. Slapping her wasn't working anymore – she would just keep pleading. Infection had set in, she was shivering and feverish and bordering on delirious.

It seemed that finally, her captor could not take it anymore.

Christine felt something cold on her forehead, pushing her head back – which bared her throat, but the relief from the heat was so much that she didn't care – and damp. A cold cloth. The pressure on her wrists suddenly increased, and then released altogether. The same went for her feet. Then she was lifted up, the chair kicked to the side and the girl laid on the cold stone floor.

"I can't have you dying before the Phantom comes. That ruins everything." The man muttered as he lifted her injured hand, removing the dirty bandage. The scent of the infection was a sickly-sweet sort, the scent that makes one's stomach turn instinctively. Christine shuddered.

"I want Erik."

"Lie still." Something cold poured over her hand, pain searing along it. Christine cried out and tried to jerk her hand back, but he kept it where he wanted it, pinning her arm with his knee. "I said lie still! It's infected, of course it's going to hurt – it's killing the germs. Shhhhh." The man snapped, "Would you prefer I let you die?"

"You're going to kill me anyway!"

"Would you prefer I cut your hand off?" He snarled, pressing harder with his knee.

"…No." Christine replied in a tiny voice, and the pressure relieved instantly. "I w-want Erik!" Tears started to fall again as the man dabbed at her hand, and poured a fresh wave of the cold and burning liquid.

* * *

Cimber had been Roulen's younger brother. Phantom had never bothered to find out the boy's last name, had been too busy killing the whelp. Apparently the whelp had a whelpette.

Go. Bloody. Figure.

"Is it just me, or are an _awful_ lot of siblings trying to kill me off?" Phantom groused, leaving the library and heading toward where Cimber was said to have worked. It seemed a very likely place to find him.

And with him…finally, his Christine.

-linebreak-

"Stop _squirming_, and on that tack – stop crying! I'm trying to help, you ungrateful little brat."

"I-it's your fault in the first place!"

"_Quiet_!" He snapped and kept cutting the infected flesh out. He was being awfully gentle about it, but the slightest touch to the wound hurt like hell. Christine couldn't cease her squirming, but she reduced her sobbing.

Within minutes, he was done and her hand was bandaged in clean gauze. He didn't bother with her wrists. "There," He murmured, standing, "And now, if you try to stand up and-or leave this area in any way, I will kill you. And then this will all have been for naught, and that would upset me a bit. You know?" He quirked an eyebrow meaningfully and Christine nodded, staring at her hand.

It didn't hurt now. It had probably just numbed or something. She could feel the fever still, although it seemed less intense.

She was startled upright, into a sitting position, when the door slammed open with enough force to nearly take it from the hinges.

Phantom stormed in, punjab in hand. "Really, monsieur. You couldn't have just told me your name to begin with, and saved me the trouble?"

Christine gave a cry of excitement, to immediately be followed by a cry of dismayed pain when she was yanked up by a handful of hair and crushed to her captor's chest, a blade to her throat.

* * *

He dared to touch her so roughly. Oh, it was on now.

"So glad you could make it, Phantom."

"Yes, yes. May we just pretend we have done our posturing and move on to the more important part where I kill you?" Phantom sighed.

Cimber laughed, tossing Christine to the side – which was met with a cry of pain as she smacked into a table and sank to the floor.

"Why yes, monsieur, as long as you plan to fight me square in a swordfight."

Phantom gave a long-suffering sigh and nodded, rolling his eyes, "Must I _really_?" At the nod he put his punjab away, drawing his blade, "Very well, boy." The lack of light was not cumbersome in the least, as he had spent his life in darkness.

Cimber attacked first – impulsive young man, one should never just attack first like that.

Of course, who was Phantom to care? He parried the young man's attack, forcing his blade to the side and bringing his own across the boy's chest. A thin line of red sprang up – the boy had leapt back just in time.

The two brought their blades together with a resounding crash, separated, and did so again. Left – parry, strike right – parry, strike left – parry, strike overhead – parry, strike from below…

It was almost as though they were evenly matched.

Of course, Phantom knew how to fight dirty. Catching the boy's blade overhead, he slammed a fist into his nose. Cimber stumbled back with a shout. Phantom hit him again, a strike to the jaw. It would have been a crushing blow had the boy not been so burly.

Cimber fell, snarling curses. Phantom whirled to go to Christine, but found his legs swept from beneath him. He fell with his own curse, catching and rolling to parry the boy's angry blade.

Now they were rolling about the floor, scuttling and parrying and rolling. It was almost comical, and probably would have been fun if they hadn't been trying to kill each other. Phantom was startled to take a strike to the arm, and angrily jabbed the boy's stomach.

Erik had always been the swordfighter of the pair, Phantom simply didn't have the patience. As he showed now, parrying the boy's sword and slipping the punjab out, snapping it around Cimber's neck.

"No one. Ever. Dares to touch that which is _mine_, you _fool_!" All Phantom had wanted was to get his Christine back. The 'honour' other men spoke of so highly – one of those 'other men' being Erik – was not something he troubled himself about.

And with that, he jerked and broke the boy's neck, yanking the punjab from the limp body and hurrying over to Christine. She hadn't moved from where she had fallen. Phantom gently rolled her over and sat her up, seeing that while her eyes shone with fever she was lucid and concious. Just weak and exhausted.

"Christine?" He purred, "Christine, look at me."

Her gaze flickered to his own, struggling to stay there. "Good girl," Phantom whispered, scooping her up, "Let's go back, shall we?"

"Want to go back with you," Christine demanded softly, curled into him, "Not the above-ground."

"Oh?" Phantom sounded amused, "Is that so?"

"Yes." No pleading, no hopeful tone…flat-out demand.

Well, hell. At this point she deserved it. He'd abandoned her, and look what she'd just gone through on his account…if she wanted to be with him, Phantom would not argue.

"Alright, _mon ange_."

Christine sighed her relief and dozed off in his arms as he turned to leave.

* * *

Phantom. She was trapped with Phantom again.

He'd been very gentle at first, feeding her and watering her and generally just trying to give her back her strength and break that bloody fever. After a while, however, he'd slowly fallen back into his old habits.

Moodiness, that was definitely the largest. One moment he'd been smiling and gentle, the next he'd slap her for some imagined insult.

Christine hated having to walk on eggshells, she wanted her Erik back – and didn't know how to get him.

She was terrified all the time.

"Christine, sing for me." Phantom demanded quite suddenly, startling the girl from her reverie.

She wanted Erik back so badly. "I don't want to sing."

Phantom's eyes narrowed, "You will sing."

"No." Christine whispered, "You sing. Sing for me. Please?"

That startled him, and his anger dissolved. He seemed pleased at the request and nodded, smirking, turning back to his organ.

Christine sighed with relief. She didn't want him to hear the mess her voice had become. She knew he'd be furious.

As his angelic voice filled the room with an old song in Latin – or something – Christine sat back to listen, closing her eyes. He sang so beautifully.

Now, if she could just get her Erik back, everything would be perfect again.


	15. No Second Thoughts

**My Dearest Reader;**

**We have not been ignoring this story, we just haven't been sure how to go about the next few chapters. Bring Erik back? Kill something? Who knows? We received the original Broadway cast recording from a loyal reader – you know who you are (Kristi, hehe) – thanks a ton; Michael Crawford has the most _gorgeous_ voice.**

**And now we're updating as we promised to do months ago. Senior year is not quite as awesome as we'd hoped. Ugh.**

**We leave you with these two thoughts – working at Domino's rocks, and donating to St. Jude's is a _very good thing_. So do it.**

**Your Humble Servant, **

**DoN

* * *

**

Maitre

Chapter Fifteen

No Second Thoughts

* * *

"No, no, no – that is _not the note_, Christine!" Phantom snarled, pacing around the room in frenzied state. His mask was off, his face flushed with anger, occasionally hitting the organ with a fierce strike. "Try _AGAIN_."

The girl, for her part, was already near tears. They'd been trying to retrain her voice for four hours, she was exhausted and frightened. He'd been furious the moment she'd tried to sing for him and been so far off. Her voice was close to gone at this point; it had taken too much abuse.

"Again!" He repeated, storming toward her. Afraid he would strike her, Christine immediately sang the closest she could to the note he was demanding of her. Phantom hesitated, considering her, and nodded with a twisted smile. "Good girl. Much better – remember that you want to go over the note and gently set upon it, you don't want to be grasping for it."

Christine nodded her head fervently, biting her lower lip anxiously, not wanting him angry with her. "Good," He cooed.

Phantom turned away, "You've done very well, _ma petite_. Would you like to eat?"

Done very well? He'd spent the whole time screaming at her. How strange. Christine, however, was not going to argue. Instead she managed a tremulous smile and stepped toward him. "If I could; I would very much like to." Every word spoken to Erik had to be delicately worded and phrased with the utmost delicacy. Anything but diplomacy was unacceptable and didn't help his temper at all.

"Very good, let us adjourn to the kitchen then." The formality with which they had to speak to each other was infuriating. Christine was going _mad_.

"As you wish," She mumbled and followed him to the kitchen. She saw Phantom smirking at the surprised look that went across her face when she saw the gorgeous meal he'd prepared for the pair of them. It was huge; meat, vegetables, fruit, herbs, wine, bread, cheese, almost anything she could have wished for.

"You did very well today, my love." He commented gently, taking her hand and leading her to the table, settling her down.

Still speechless, Christine nodded quietly. She did well? Why didn't he say that _while_ she was doing it? Erik always did. Although Erik wasn't quite the cook Phantom was. Why had he done this? She glanced up, vocalizing her question.

"You are still far too gaunt, my darling, and I want you to be healthy. Thereby, I am going to feed you as much as I can. Eat, Christine."

Not wanting to tempt him to grow angry, she immediately went about filling her plate. To her surprise, Phantom also sat and began to fill his own plate. She had never seen him eat so much at once in the time she'd spent with him.

Pleased that he was actually eating with her for once, Christine took her time, occasionally offering snatches of conversation and tidbits of information she'd learned at one time or another. Phantom actually reciprocated this, responding to her efforts to make conversation and offering his own bits of knowledge in exchange for her own.

It was almost a normal dinner.

When the meal was over, Phantom stopped Christine from cleaning up, taking her hands – the wound had mostly healed, leaving scarred flesh and a phantom pain…no pun intended – and leading her into the room with the fireplace. Christine just referred to it as the living room; it was no longer the cold front-room that it had been upon her first visit.

Sitting, Phantom patted his lap. Feeling like a lapdog, but resisting the urge to show this, Christine came to sit in his lap. He shifted her to his liking, and she eventually wound up curled in his lap with her cheek against his chest. "I'm going to read you a bedtime story, is that okay, _ma petite_?" He purred in her ear.

"Yes." Christine responded eagerly, resettling to get more comfortable. Erik hadn't read to her in so long, and Phantom could use his voice better than his counterpart to convey sensations. He reached over to pick up a book – perhaps it was better described as a _tome_ – and opened it to the first page. "What's it called, Erik?" She didn't realize she'd called him the wrong name until he glanced at her, and at that point she made a face, "What do I call you?" It was weird, living with two men in the same body. At least they both liked her.

Phantom told her the title – it was something complicated and hard to remember, so Christine decided she didn't care what it was called – and then he paused to consider her second question. "What do you call me…" He considered for another moment, "You may call me Michael, _ma petite_."

"Michael?" Christine wondered, "Why?"

"I like the name." The man laughed, apparently highly amused at his own wit, "Erik was named – I was not. Neither of us was named by a loving parent, but we now have names all the same." He frowned, "Is this a problem for you?"

"No! I was only wondering why you would select Michael. I think it's a splendid name." She forced a smile, trying not to look so tentative and frightened.

Not that Phan – Michael – seemed to mind. He almost seemed amused when she was timorous and unsure. Like he could only see her as a helpless child or a delicate butterfly. Christine hated that.

"I'm glad you like it." He purred, stroking a hand through her hair before opening the book. "Now hush, and listen."

He began to read.

* * *

"Christine?" The whisper was gentle, but incredibly persistent. A tiny yawn escaped the girl as she looked around, trying to place the speaker. "_Christine_." She blinked awake, realizing she was in her room alone and had no memory of falling asleep or getting there. A little confused, she yawned again and tilted her head at the general direction of the sounds.

"Yes?"

"_Christine_."

"That's my name," she responded, getting a little cranky, "What's yours?"

"Meg." Startled, the girl slid out of bed and made her way to the corner. Hidden securely behind a curtain was a small grate. Inside the grate was Meg. Her hair was a mess, her eyes red and her cheeks dreadfully pale.

"Meg! What's happened?" Christine gasped, snapping the grate out and helping her petite friend out of the tiny vent.

The blonde threw her arms around Christine's neck in an unnaturally tight hold, a sob escaping her, "Th-the Opera…it's…they're burning…"

Christine paled, "What? What's happening to the Opera?"

"They're…going…to burn…"

"Who are _they_?" She whispered frantically, her heart leaping into her throat as she took Meg to her bed and made the blonde sit, kneeling to peer up at her tearful face.

"I do-don't know! They ju-just said that th-this place is ev-evil, and…and…they've locked the doors, Christine, no one can get out!"

Horrified, she leapt to her feet. A quick kiss to Meg with a promise to return, and Christine darted out of the room. "Eri- Mich- SOMEONE WHO WEARS A MASK!"

Catching the disorganized panic, Michael was there in a second with the girl firmly wrapped in his arms and a hand stroking her hair. "What's wrong, little one?" He whispered gently.

"Burning…they…" She explained what was going on in a panicked tone, barely able to catch her breath to explain what was wrong.

Fury lit Michael's face. "Mine! They may…they…I…" He snarled, kissing the top of her head and whirling away. In moments he was gone.

Christine ran back to Meg, "Michael…Erik. They're taking care of it, okay?"

"They?" The blonde whispered softly, looking exhausted.

"Erik is not only one person. He's him…his gentle self…and then he's Michael, the mean one."

"He's two people?"

"Indeed," She whispered, "It's weird, I know." Nodding, she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around Meg, "He'll protect us. He protects everyone in the Opera House."

"So he's a good ghost?"

"When he wants to be."

Quiet, the two sat and waited, letting the Phantom to protect his Opera.

* * *

"Is that the last of it, Jacques?" Inquired a large man, who seemed to be nothing more than an overseer. A smaller man, face drawn and frail, smirked up at him. Of the two man, all that was visible were their mouths and noses. They wore black masks identical to the men that had hurt Christine.

They really needed to stop messing with things that belonged to the Phantom.

"Good." The whole opera house was doused in oil and surrounded by wood.

A younger man, face still soft with uncertainty, furrowed his brow. "Why…are we doing this?"

"The people who live in hell-holes like this are evil. They are against everything we fight for. We shall start with this Opera, and eventually we will have burned every Opera House in France – and then perhaps all the rest of Europe."

The younger one frowned, but he didn't argue. They hadn't listened all the other times he had, anyway.

Jacques and the leading man lit the torch together, and Jacques took it to a part of the oil and wood.

"I hear people shouting…are there _people_ in there?" The young one gasped, horrified.

"Yes." The overseer responded honestly, "Yes, there are."

"Why?"

"If we let _them_ leave and only destroy the _opera_, then there's nothing gained." The man responded, shaking his head, "Light it."

Jacques leaned down, lighting one fragment and then moved to light another. A black-gloved hand grasped his wrist and broke it in a yank, snatching the torch away and using it to smack Jacques upside the chin. The man fell back with a scream, snatching his burning mask off to reveal a gaunt face and a red-haired man.

Unfortunately, the three men were not the only ones there. Within an instant, Michael was face-to-face with roughly forty angry men in black masks.

_That wasn't very stealthy,_ Erik commented from within his box.

_Did I ask for your opinion?_

_Oh, right. So sorry…'Michael'._

Was he making fun of …what? Michael hadn't expected to actually be made fun of by the man in a box. Wow. Erik was growing some backbone. Better watch out for him; he might pick the lock.

"You _dare_ to once _more_ try to destroy that which is _mine_?" Michael thundered ferociously, using his Opera-trained voice to its fullest extent.

"It's him!" The younger one who'd been having doubts cried.

The fiery eyes of the creature before them snapped to the younger one's face. "Show me your face, boy."

Despite arguments from those around him, he did. And Michael recognized him. That little red-head boy who'd been holding the hammer… "I should _have killed you_." He snarled.

The boy shook his head frantically, "I didn't do anything this time! I didn't want to, really! I'm sorry I hurt your girl."

Michael snarled, reaching for his punjab. Only to hesitate, startled. What?

The punjab was gone.

This was a bit of a surprise, as Michael didn't recall removing it from its usual place in the hidden pocket of his cloak. Of course, obviously he had seeing as it wasn't there.

"What's the matter?" The leader teased, "Missing something?"

Obviously the man couldn't _know_. Michael cursed himself for showing surprise and drew himself to his full – rather imposing – height.

After turning for a moment to stamp the budding fire out in three quick snaps of his right foot, he turned back and started walking toward the man. "Christine. Is mine. This opera house. Is mine. France. Is mine."

Quite the hefty load of responsibility. All the same, Michael was several inches taller than the leader and his voice was petrifying. No one dared trying to challenge the claims he made.

"You do _not_ attempt to injure that which _is mine_!" Michael roared. He reached for the nearest man and yanked his rapier from its sheath. It was an awful sword, but it was sharp. "Now," He snarled and turned the blade on the leader. "Who dies first? You?"

* * *

"Do you smell smoke?" Giry demanded of the terrified ballet girls. "No? Then _if one more of you screams, so help me God…_"

The girls squeaked, and pressed their hands over their mouths. Satisfied that they would be quiet now, she left the room and paced to the window. Climbing up to see out, she peeked at the scene with no small amount of surprise. Erik?

She leapt down, and raced to gather the patrons of the Opera House. Within minutes several hundred people were crowded around the windows, watching the man they'd grown up fearing protect them.

He wasn't a very good sword fighter…well, he was good, but he was impatient. He tended to cheat.

Not one person blamed him, seeing as he was out-numbered thirty to one.

"Are we just going to sit here and _wait_ for him to save us like little girls?" Shouted one of the men.

"No!" Came the answering roar.

They finally came together as one big group – drapers with stagecrafters with actors with musicians with dancers. They usually kept to their own groups, but united they could get so much more done.

It was like putting together the Opera – everything tied together when they worked as one.

* * *

The last thing Michael expected to hear was the sound of shattering glass, the shouts of men. The fighting stopped as they all watched the men and women of the Opera House. They had somehow broken through a wall, dancers vaulting out with rope ladders the stagecrafters had made and musicians helping where they could, depending on where most of their muscle mass was.

The people poured out, hundreds of them, and came up behind the Phantom. Violins were tapped on shoulders like baseball bats, swords in the hands of those who had them, others ready to fight hands-first.

"I think this looks a little more fair, Erik," Madame Giry commented, "Don't you?"

The man before them stared at the people with fiery eyes and what was visible of his face held taut…and then he relaxed. A grin broke across the visible side of his face, "Why yes, Madame. Indeed it does." He turned back around. "I believe I like these odds much more."

* * *

"I hear shouting," Christine whispered.

"You do? I don't. How do you?"

"I just do. Come on, Meg." She chirped, grabbing her hand and dragging the girl upstairs. "Come on!"

The blonde followed, confused, "Where are we going?"

"I'm tired of waiting, let's see what's going on." She murmured, and tugged Meg through the complicated series of tunnels, bringing her up a few feet away from a destroyed wall. The two watched curiously as the people ran about shouting their joy.

A shadow appeared from the crowd, and Christine found herself in someone's arms. She squirmed for a moment, and then recognized the scent of Erik and nuzzled his neck. He wore no mask…in front of everyone.

Stunned, Christine stared up at him, eyes wide. "Er-Erik, you're…"

"I know!" Erik cried. And he really _was_ Erik. "They…I…I don't know. My mask was broken during the fight, and they…no one minded!"

"Why? I mean – there's nothing wrong with it; but why do _they_ not mind_ now_?"

"I don't know." Erik swung her into his arms and carried her into the crowd. People were laughing and shouting, pounding on Erik's broad back and patting Christine's shoulder. They were…happy.

They weren't afraid.

They could see Erik's face…and it was no longer horrifying to them. He couldn't possibly be the Phantom anymore.

"They…they…" A grin spread across Christine's face. "Good! I love you." She kissed Erik, right on the mouth. It was the first time she'd ever instigated a true kiss, and from the way he responded she knew he rather liked that. Not that he didn't immediately take control of the kiss; what a control-freak.

Smiling up at him, Christine touched his twisted cheek. "Your skin…" She whispered, "Your skin is thicker. Can you feel it?"

Curious, Erik lifted a hand to his cheek and felt it. "You're right, _ma petite_." He murmured, "How strange."

"Indeed. It's almost…like it's not quite as …bad, you know? Maybe it's because I'm so used to you." Christine kissed his twisted cheek and then turned toward a new onslaught of people wanting to pay attention to Erik.

* * *

The night ended with an experience that Erik had been very patient in waiting for. Neither was terribly good at it, but they figured it out quickly enough.

Christine and Erik remained in their underground home; but they opened up a direct pathway for visitors. The other patrons begged Erik not to wear his mask, as he had nothing to hide from them – they'd seen his face already, they weren't scared of him anymore. He was their protector.

But their adventures weren't over quite yet.


	16. Garish Light of Day

**My Dearest Reader,**

**I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you all.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**DoN

* * *

**

_Maitre_

_Chapter Sixteen_

_Garish Light of Day_

* * *

_Not that Phan – Michael – seemed to mind. He almost seemed amused when she was timorous and unsure. Like he could only see her as a helpless child or a delicate butterfly. Christine hated that._

"_I'm glad you like it." He purred, stroking a hand through her hair before opening the book. "Now hush, and listen."_

_He began to read._

* * *

"Christine?" A hand gently shook her shoulder, "Christine. Wake up, _ma petite_." She groaned, shifted, and opened her eyes. Erik…Michael…ugh; she didn't know _who_ any more, peered down at her with a concerned gaze. "There you go. You fell asleep and I couldn't wake you for quite some time."

She furrowed her brow, and stared up into his face. Mask. He wore his mask.

Tears filled her eyes very suddenly when Christine came to the agonizing realization that she had dreamed the whole thing. Erik had helped no one…there was no dramatic rescue, no coming together of everyone in the opera house, no unmasking. Anyone who saw him without his mask would still probably completely panic. It was just terribly unfair.

Michael's brow furrowed, "Why are you crying?" He inquired, brushing his thumb under her eyes to wipe the tears away.

Christine sniffled with a halfhearted shrug, "Just…I was having a really nice dream. And it hurt to wake up and realize that none of it was true."

"Dreams are for children." His voice was icy again, and he pushed gently to get her out of his lap, "Come. We must rehearse."

"Rehearse for _what_, Erik? I'm not in any operas right now."

"Why not?" He inquired sharply.

"The opera you demanded be performed was performed weeks ago – I've been injured and so they replaced me. It's not…not all that important…I really…"

"You were _born_ for the stage, Christine. I want you up there."

"Well I _don't_!" She snapped suddenly, planting her hands on her hips and narrowing her eyes as she stared up at him. For once Michael said nothing, blinking at her in amazement. Christine took this as her chance to finally get all her unsaid words off of her chest. "You're so _mean_. And you're harsh and threatening and domineering and obsessive and violent. I'm terrified of you and it infuriates me! You aren't the man I love, Erik is the man I love – you are some horrible imitation!"

He struck so fast Christine didn't see him move. The next thing she knew she was hitting the ground, her head rebounding off of the stone floor, the opposite cheek burning from the strike. An instant later she was clutched close to a hard chest, a hand running through her hair, a voice cooing apologies.

Dazed, she rested her cheek against his chest and swallowed hard. "Are you okay? Speak to me, Christine. Did he hurt you?"

Erik again. She gave a groan of happiness, nuzzling his chest, "I'm fine, it just startled me – you're okay! You're back!" Christine tilted her face up and tugged his head down, kissing him softly. "You're back! I'm so glad."

"Yes, _Mon Ange_, I'm back. You needn't repeat it so many times." He chuckled as her face flushed a bit, and stroked a hand down her hair again. Then he let go of his iron grip, gently brushing his fingers down her red cheek. It stung; but probably wouldn't bruise. The nice swelling on the other cheek, where she'd rebounded off the floor, probably would. Seeing as the bruise was already forming.

"I'm just so glad. Michael was frightening." Christine refused to be examined and clawed her way close to him again, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing tight, "That was the first time he hit me…but I thought he was going to dozens of times before."

"You sort of brought it upon yourself." Erik reproached, "This time, I mean. You shouldn't have said such things to him."

"Well, I did. I couldn't take it any more."

Erik stood, helping her up and leading the rather dizzy girl to the couch. Once he'd settled her down, Erik knelt before her and gently cupped her cheeks. "Did you mean what you said?"

"What did I say?" Christine inquired, completely bewildered.

Erik took a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment. "That you don't want to be onstage."

For a long moment, the brunette hesitated. Did she want to be onstage? Would he accept her decision if it meant she never went on stage again? Christine bit her lower lip, taking a slow breath, "No. I didn't mean it." She saw the relief flicker in Erik's eyes just before closing her own. The words had been thrown in a moment of frustrated anger. Just imagining giving up the stage, never singing for those fascinated faces or hearing that applause…it was too much for her. Christine was addicted to the stage.

"Are you sure, _Ange_? I don't want to force you back on the stage if you don't really want to be there." Erik whispered. It was obvious that he'd be disappointed if she gave it up, after all the effort he went to, but he would accept her choice. It was rather sweet.

"Yes, Erik." She smiled and turned her face to kiss first one palm and then the other, placing her hands over his. She noticed that his hands were cold – and then that she was. Erik followed her gaze, realizing that the fireplace was no longer lit. "Goodness…when did that go out?" Christine wondered.

Erik frowned, standing, "I'm not sure, but that's alright. I can fix it." He vanished for a few minutes, returning with a small wooden child's wagon full of wood. Once the wood was all in the fireplace, he knelt with his back to Christine. Unable to observe what he was doing, Christine just sighed and closed her eyes. After a few minutes warmth was filling the room again. She watched Erik step back from the impressive blaze and hid a proud smile behind her hand. She'd certainly married a useful man.

Erik returned to her side, but did not sit, hesitating instead and glancing at her, "May I sit beside you, Christine?"

He'd _asked_? She hesitated for a moment, too stunned by that turn of events to do more than stare at him dumbly. At the expectant look on his face, she went red and moved over, patting the couch invitingly.

Pleased, Erik sat and settled himself in with his long legs stretched out and his long arms draped over the back of the couch. For a man so tall, Erik bore himself with incredible dignity, grace, and comfort. Most tall men were uncomfortable in their own skin and hunched awkwardly. Erik refused to lower himself to such a thing and stood at his full height without shame. He even _sat_ well.

"See something you like?" Erik inquired innocently, with just a hint of a smirk.

Startled, Christine jerked her eyes away from her contemplation of his posture with a laugh. "Sorry!"

"No need to be sorry, my love. You may stare at me blankly any time." He teased gently, moving one of his arms to drape over her shoulder.

Christine took the cue and moved to snuggle under his arm with a contented sigh, "Mmm…I'll remember that." She approved.

Her complacency inspired a broad smile from Erik as he leaned down to kiss the top of her head gently. "It's rather late, my dear, why don't we go to bed?" He suggested, moving to stand.

Christine nodded and followed him up, keeping his arm trapped over her shoulder by lacing her fingers through his. Erik chuckled and led her into the room that had been hers since he had first brought her down – the only difference was that now he, on occasion, preferred to share it with her.

He turned his back while she changed and slipped under the covers, and when she gave him the all-clear he slipped out of his shoes, trousers, and shirt. Once he had doused the lamp, Erik slipped his mask off, and slipped into the bed as well.

The last thing the underwear-clad man expected was the feeling of Christine's lithe form crawling over him. Only…they seemed to be missing an extra layer of fabric. She'd nearly had a heart attack when he'd taken to wearing only his underwear to bed – it was too hot for him otherwise – and now she had decided to sleep in the nude? On top of him no less? No fair.

"I don't think I'm being clear enough." He heard Christine laugh in the darkness, her delicate lips pressing to his own, "I'm ready."

Oooooooooh.

Well, Erik was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

* * *

Anyone who asked Christine later – not that anyone would, what business was it of theirs? Would hear that it had been the best night of her life. She wouldn't share any details with those people, of course. A real lady does not kiss and tell.

Suffice it to say that the next morning found the pair still in Christine's bed, a tangle of limbs and blankets and Christine's hair. Both completely nude, and both waking with contented smiles; Erik smoothing a hand over Christine's cheek. "Good morning, beautiful."

Christine smiled up at him vaguely, peering up at him in what little light there was. Oh, good – he wasn't wearing his mask. She'd have been sad if he was. She reached up and brushed her hand over his malformed cheek, "Good morning, beautiful."

She was fairly certain that tears glittered in his eyes before he turned away and stood. For a moment he reached for his clothing – and then he snorted and strutted off.

Typical male.

Amused at his display of testosterone, Christine stood and patted around for her robe. Finding it, she swung it on and belted it tightly around her small waist. Then she padded after Erik, "What are you doing?"

He smiled at her and turned to kiss her cheek, "Nothing of interest." Erik responded, "Why don't we go to an opera tonight?"

Christine frowned, "Erik; the Populaire isn't—"

"--The only opera house in Paris? My thought exactly." Erik cut her off, grinning, "Now you go get dolled up, and I'll handle the rest."

"But an opera would be –"

"—At night? Yes, but what else are we going to do all day?"

"But why don't—"

"—We just stay here and perhaps read? I want to go out."

"But—"

"—I hate going out? That's okay. I want to show you off, _Ma Belle Peche_."

"I—"

"Love me?" Erik supplied.

Christine burst into giggles, "I'm wondering if I needed to actually contribute to this conversation at all."

He swept her into a hug, spinning her and then putting her down. "No, not really, _Ma chere_." Grinning, Erik set her down and swatted her bottom playfully, "Go get dressed!"

Christine put her hands over her bottom with a laugh, startled at his new boldness. "How dressy?"

"You're going to an opera, my dear. Come now." Erik responded a little reproachfully.

Christine sighed and vanished into her room to find her most elegant dress.

-lb-

"Christine; my dear, sweet, wonderful, beautiful, amazing, butterfly?" Erik called in _that voice_. The one that said he was about two seconds away from going crazy.

"Yes, Erik?" Came the innocent response.

"You have been getting ready for around two hours. And while it's _great_ to know you're getting so very dolled up for me, my lovely…I don't suppose…you would mind…_going faster_?" Erik suggested a little twitchily.

Amused, Christine appeared in the doorway and his irritation went quiet. She wore a stunning ruby gown that fell to the floor in a cascade of ruffles and …well…pretty. Just a whole lot of pretty. Erik moved forward, his elegant black suit perfect as usual, and gently tipped her chin up to peck her perfectly made up lips. "Wonderful."

"What?"

"You. Wonder…you. You look wonderful." Erik managed. Christine grinned. Maybe she should get dressed up more often. Erik slipped his arm around her waist and led her through a new pattern of tunnels, careful not to muss her dress, bringing them above-ground in minutes.

* * *

The sunlight startled her, and Christine hissed, turning her face away from it with a groan of pain. Erik frowned, gently lifting his opera cloak to shield her eyes for a moment. "What's wrong, _mon Ange_?" He inquired, worried.

"Nothing, nothing, it's just bright!" She hastened to assure him.

Erik peered down at her face for a long moment. She was so stunning…so amazing…she'd applied her makeup to hide the bruise on her cheek, which was one of those talents theatre people are incredible at. Not that anyone couldn't do it, but those in theatre have a knack for hiding what they don't want seen. "Of course, my love. We'll bring you out here more often to get some colour back into your cheeks, okay?"

She tilted her head up at him, slowly lowering his cloak until her eyes had adjusted and she could see properly in the light. "Are you sure? You hate it up here."

Erik leaned down and nipped her earlobe, "Not anymore." He purred, "You're my life, and I need to take care of you – sunlight will keep you happy. I don't want you to get sick again."

Cringing at that memory, Christine managed a tentative nod. "Okay," She whispered, "I would like to come up more often. It's so strange…I used to love the sunlight, but now I really almost can't stand it."

"I've kept you in my darkness for too long." He sighed softly, shaking his head.

"You said something similar when you left me." Christine hissed suddenly, and snatched his hand, holding tight, "Don't go. Please don't go."

"Never again, my love." Erik hastened to soothe, stunned by the desperation in her eyes. "Never, ever, again. I won't leave you, I promise."

That seemed to be all the girl needed, she calmed right back down after that gave a soft sigh. "So …what are we doing?"

"You're the girl," Erik responded, pleased that his words had such an effect on her demeanor and struggling to make himself as cheerful as her again, "Where do you want to go? What shall we do first? Perfume, blankets, pillows, needles, thread, puppies? Would you like a puppy?" He chuckled.

"I prefer cats." Christine admitted as she wandered alongside him, "Why don't we just go to the market, and explore? They always have such wonderful things in a market!"

Erik frowned ever-so-slightly. The market was jam-packed with people, and with the bustle it would be difficult to protect his butterfly. She had a nasty habit of flitting off without warning and that made his life doubly as hard.

Nonetheless, he could never deny his brown-haired beauty a thing. "Of course, my love, we'll go to the market."

Seeing her face light up more than made up for how awkward the setting would be, and Erik followed her bouncy steps the thirteen streets to the market. How she remained so damn cheerful in heels and a dress that had to weigh more than she did remained a mystery to Erik, who found it somewhere between adorable and frustrating.

* * *

"Look, look!" Christine squealed, indicating something…well…it was, um, shiny? Erik couldn't for the life of him figure out what he was looking at. Frowning, he gave her a questioning glance. Startled, she shook her head, "It's a belt, silly. Isn't it pretty? It's awfully gaudy, I just liked the colour." The girl explained brightly.

"Okay." Erik chuckled, that deep manly-chuckle that said he was humouring her but thought she was being awfully silly.

"Don't do that." Christine snapped, frowning at him suddenly.

Taken aback, Erik quirked his visible eyebrow, "Don't do what?"

"Don't laugh like that. It's …it's…" She hesitated, desperately grasping for the right word, stuttering over a few before finding the right one, "Demeaning!"

"My laughter demeans you? In what way?" Erik inquired, genuinely curious as he watched emotions dance across her face.

"Not your _usual_ laughter, but that was the laugh I used to get when I was a child and saying something stupid."

Erik nodded slowly, deciding that perhaps he should just give up before she really got riled up, "Of course, my love, I apologize." He was a great husband, giving in like that startled Christine so badly that she couldn't even finish ranting at him. Victory!

"Oh. Well. Okay then." She responded slowly, a smile spreading over her face, "You just out-maneuvered me, didn't you?"

"I did indeed, my darling. Do you like that hairclip?"

Once more outmaneuvered, but this time not catching it, Christine turned her gaze to the gorgeous hairclip glittering on a table a few rows over. "Oh, yes, it's lovely." She approved.

Without wasting a moment, Erik went to purchase it for her. "Anything else you fancy, my dearest?"

"You trying to buy my love?" She inquired, tilting her head.

"Would it work?" Erik responded, giving her a dramatically contemplative look.

Giggling, Christine wrinkled her nose, "Hmph. Why don't we buy earrings?"

"But your ears aren't—"

"You can pierce them."

Erik frowned; as beautiful as he thought earrings were, he didn't want her hurting. But seeing her bright smile took his frown, and his breath, away. "Alright."

* * *

The opera was amazing. Erik could see from the look on his love's face that she hadn't expected another opera house to perform as stunningly as the Populaire. And just why not? The Populaire's …popularity…had been waning as of late simply due to the fact that other houses were beginning to perform better operas and perform them with more skill. Erik took note of several names, wanting to see about coaxing them to the Populaire. After all…this was all about the politics.

"That was amazing," Christine gushed as Erik led her out, her tiny hands wrapped in his sleeves, "How…where…why…?"

"Silly thing." Was all he said, voice fond as he stroked her cheek and led her to the carriage he'd commissioned earlier. Offering his hand, Erik gently helped the girl in and followed her up, closing the door and settling her before making himself comfortable on the side filled with boxes and bags.

"Silly?" Christine spoke up again when they'd started toward the opera house, "I am not silly! I'm impressed! Why don't we move below _that_ opera?"

Startled, Erik turned his gaze toward her, but relaxed when he saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes, "That would be difficult, but doable." He teased gently, "Although we'd have to move all of the useless junk you bought today."

Not even beginning to be riled, Christine just laughed and shook her head, "Sure. We can do that. I'll distract everyone by singing a piercing high note and you can carry!" She continued on, chirping her plans for the big move, and Erik continued to chuckle. She certainly was lively.

And all his.

That possessive feeling spread through him once more, and it took him a bit of effort to keep it from showing on his face as he nodded and smiled at her words.

Oblivious to the feelings of her counterpart, Christine finally gave up on her plans and sat back with a happy sigh, "You realize we could really do it?"

"Do what?" Erik inquired distractedly, closing his eyes as he leaned back.

"Could move." Christine explained, even as she suddenly shifted and moved to curl up in his warm lap.

"Why?" Erik wondered with a soft chuckle, vaguely noting that the carriage had stopped as he wrapped his wife in his tight embrace.

"Dunno…" Christine whispered as she pressed her face to his shoulder and went still and quiet.

Erik frowned suddenly. Something was…wrong. They'd been in the midst of a conversation, he knew that, and just a moment ago he'd been battling powerful emotions. Now, suddenly, his emotions were quiet and all he wanted was a nap.

Christine, in the middle of jokingly babbling about all the fun they could have sneaking furniture into an opera house through the front door, had just suddenly stood, sat in his lap, and fallen asleep.

Something here wasn't reading right.

The air…the air tasted funny. Erik groaned as he tried to sneeze the scent of powder out of his nose, the taste clinging to his tongue gagging him. Now that he was paying attention, the ploy was obvious. Ether.

Why?

It made no sense. Why couldn't they ever get a break? The first time he took his girl out to show her off to the town…and someone decides to attack.

Erik struggled to stand now, clinging his brunette close, groaning as his knees gave out and pitched them both to the floor. He heard a pained whimper from Christine, which made him feel suddenly guilty.

But why? What was wrong? She was safe in his arms…still asleep even. His eyes…so heavy…

It hurt to keep his eyes open. Maybe he'd just close them while he thought. Rest them for a little while.

Resting his eyes turned instantly into sleep, and within minutes Christine and Erik were unconscious in the back of the carriage – which had begun to move again, in a new direction.


	17. Cirque des Phénomènes

**No, my faithful readers, Maitre was not forgotten. I just wrote myself back into a corner with my witty plot twist when I realized "Oh…I don't know who my villain is…" and after much thought I finally came up with someone. )**

**Also, in regards to those who've critiqued my inability to stick with the times: -Cough- Oops. I actually never paid much attention, simply because my fanfics had all been modern before this one. I will certainly make an attempt to stick more to the times, please continue to let me know if I have a character say something too modern. **

**Also. I demand that everyone read…everything…by Lady Rosesong. She's fantastic. She's the reason I finally plunked myself down to write a new chapter.**

**Now then! Back to the story.**

**Funfact: Popcorn carts. Invented in 1885. Isn't that neat? **

**Regards,**

**DoN**

* * *

_Maitre_

_Chapter Seventeen_

* * *

The first scent Christine recognized was that of…popcorn? She recalled, vaguely, that it had been growing in popularity since the popcorn carts had been invented four years prior – so perhaps it shouldn't have been such an odd scent. However, she couldn't fathom why she would be smelling popcorn.

Groaning softly, suddenly associating the overwhelming scent of popcorn with the nausea trembling through her stomach, Christine struggled to open her eyes as her head began to pound. Other scents began to invade…urine, blood, helplessness, fear. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

At the sound of laughter, Christine came around with a startled gasp, her face paling as she took in her surroundings. She was in a cage, the bars spread rather wide – but she assumed no one would expect her to try slipping through them – and the floor covered in straw. Fear tore through her, and Christine frantically looked around once more, trying to see something more than the bars of her cage, but beyond her small cage was naught but a tent of some sort.

"Erik?" She called into the darkness, voice shaking, "Erik?" Christine repeated when she received no response. Still nothing. "Erik, _please_!" Tears came unbidden to her eyes as she tried to understand her situation, shivering in her gown. It had once been beautiful – somewhere between falling asleep in Erik's lap and waking up in the land of popcorn, it had gotten dirty and torn and frayed. "Erik! Where are you?"

"Quiet!" Snapped a harsh voice to her left, and her head jerked toward it as she pressed against the bars behind her, "You just be _quiet_ missy, you hear me?" A stick of some sort rattled against the bars opposite where she cowered, "Not _another word_."

Struggling to see who was speaking to her, Christine bit back her tears, "Who-"

"WHAT did I just SAY?" The voice roared. The brunette decided it would be a fantastic idea to be very quiet, and obediently fell into silence, still pressing to the bars. After several long moments of silence, the man seemed content that she had been properly terrified, and answered the questions burning within her, "You, and your…lover…are currently-" His voice trailed off into a sinister chuckle, "Hehe – _guests_ – of the _Carnaval des Phénomènes._"

Circus of Freaks.

Christine choked on her gasp, realizing to her horror what was going on. Erik…Erik and his malformed face…could he get no peace? Did his misfortune have to haunt him time and time again? How had these people _found_ them?

"How-"

"What did I say?" The voice snapped again, and once more Christine shrank away – properly cowed. After another moment, he continued, "Now then; the_ Cadavre _has agreed to perform for us, as long as you are kept out of harm's way. So you're going to stay right where you are in your cage. If you're good, we'll let you sleep in the _Cadavre_'s cage with him at night, if you're stupid enough to want to do that, and if you're not…you won't. Clear enough? Nod."

Christine nodded, her stomach doing acrobatics. _Cadavre_. Erik was no corpse; how _dare_ they insinuate something so terrible. How could he let them put him on display like that? How could they be so cruel?

A chuckle came from the man, "Good girl." And with that all was silent. Confused, frightened, and suddenly chilled to her core, Christine slid down the bars and huddled there, legs drawn to her chin and arms wrapped around them…and just trembled. What would they do now? No way would Erik be able to get them out of this. Perhaps it was up to her.

* * *

Coming around was not a pleasant experience for Erik. He couldn't decide which was worse – the migraine, or the instant nausea. It was not his finest moment when the first thing he had to do was roll on his side and vomit several times before his senses finally began to clear. The moment it wasn't agonizing to open his eyes, he did, looking for Christine without an instant of hesitation. Unfortunately, all he saw were bars.

It was as though his worst nightmare had come true. The years he had never dared tell Christine about; the years spent being put on display and tortured for the amusement of people who either never realized what they were seeing was real…or never cared. The formative years of his youth. People wondered why the Phantom was so odd.

A feral growl began low in the back of Erik's throat. He had killed the man who'd run the freakshow; killed him and enjoyed it. How could this possibly be happening again? It made absolutely no sense.

"You're awake."

"Yes, thank you, _monsieur_, for pointing out the obvious." Erik responded dangerously, his voice a low bass rumble – which was an incredible feat for a tenor.

"My pleasure." The voice seemed undeterred by Erik's blatant threat, and strolled right into the cage, closing the door absently behind him. Absolutely stunned at the man's gall, Erik could do naught but gape for a moment...unable to believe the stranger could be that stupid. "Now. Perhaps you're wondering why you're here?"

"I'm fairly certain that I'm here because I'm what some ignorant fools might call a _half-man_." Erik spat, struggling to get to his feet. He realized, as waves of weakness tumbled over him, that the man had shown such bravery simply because he knew Erik was currently helpless.

"Exactly." The finely dressed gentleman knelt to consider Erik's masked face as the defenseless man growled. The stranger was a handsome one – strong jaw, attractive features, intelligent eyes and long brown hair in a loose ponytail down his back. "We received words from our contact in the Populaire that you had ventured out with your little bride today."

Contact? What? …They knew of Christine?

"Explain."

"We knew who you were the moment we heard of the masked man – my uncle was the man you killed all those years ago. A distasteful man, but he certainly amassed a fortune for my family to enjoy." A smirk. "So we have had a chorus girl on our payroll for months, waiting for you to finally come out in the open where you couldn't just slip back into your catacombs. And today you did exactly what we wanted."

"Can't you just leave me in peace?" Erik rumbled, his eyes narrow as he finally managed to sit up – glad he'd managed to empty his stomach in a manner that left him free of any evidence of the action. "Why did you do this?"

"Well; you _are_ a freak and you _were_ the best money-maker we had and you _did_ kill my uncle." The stranger ticked each reason off on his gloved fingers, smirking. "The opera house will be glad to be rid of you."

Erik couldn't believe this. How the hell was it his past actions just couldn't go away? How the _hell_ did he manage to amass so many enemies? How many relatives did each of his victims have, for crying out loud? It was getting ridiculous.

"God really does hate me." Was all the Opera's ghost said, shaking his head as he finally slipped to his feet, watching as the stranger stood as well. Just before Erik attempted to keep dying in the family, the young man held up a hand, one finger reproaching the masked man.

"Did you forget your bride?"

Christine! Erik's eyes narrowed as he gazed at the man with eyes full of hatred and question.

"Yes, we do have her. For now…she's safe. However, should you harm me or anyone else here, that might change very quickly. Here's what you will do. You will perform for us during the day. At night, you may be with your bride. Now that's fair, isn't it?"

If they'd met under different circumstances, Erik was beginning to have a feeling that he would have rather liked this young man. He was smart, and that seemed to be rare for one of his enemies.

"I will accept your terms; with a few of my own."

"Terms?" The young man sounded amused.

"A whip of any sort will not come near me. Ever. I will perform for you, but I will not do so with whips lashing at me every time I turn around. Secondly, I will remove my mask for performances – but that is the only time; the moment I choose I will replace it and I will hear nothing of it."

"You, _monsieur_, are not in a position to be making demands." The young man sounded amused, "However. I have heard of your astonishing musical talent. In exchange for your terms, you will sing during your performances."

Erik contemplated that for a long moment. He could control a crowd with his voice – did the man know that? Perhaps if he didn't, the phantom could manipulate that to his advantage. Nodding slowly, Erik extended his arms out to his sides in a gesture of supplication, "Bring my Christine so that I may see for myself that she is well, and I will accept your terms."

"It's evening, so I suppose since I'd already promised she could spend evenings with you – it would only be fair. A pleasure doing business with you, _Monsieur Cadavre_."

Erik crossed his arms with an amused smirk, "Erik, if you don't mind." He refused to be dehumanized yet again. He would do this until he found a way to escape while protecting Christine – and he would keep his dignity this time. "And your name?"

For a moment, the brunette man hesitated, halfway out the door. "Stephen."

Erik was silent then, letting the man leave as he moved to lean against the back bars of his cage, sighing low in the back of his throat. No…this wouldn't be the same. He was no longer a frightened child, he understood that his disfigurement did not deny him love, and he was more powerful than that young man could imagine. Remembering that Christine was coming, Erik moved to kick sand over the remnants of his sickness, tossing a few handfuls of straw over that.

Content once more, he paced his large cage, waiting for the tent's flaps to part once more and bring forth his darling Christine.

* * *

"_Mademoiselle_?" This was a new voice, and Christine looked up questioningly, not daring to respond for fear of the other voice shouting at her again. "Ah, you are awake." A light clicking was heard, and suddenly the bars to her left swung open, "Come now."

She stood slowly, her legs aching almost as much as her head, her stomach doing _pirouettes_, "Where--?"

"I'm taking you to …" The voice hesitated for a long moment, "To Erik."

Relief flooded her, and Christine scrambled from the confines of her cage, looking up curiously at the man who'd released her. He was a handsome man; although she'd learned from Raoul that beauty was only skin-deep, his eyes were an astonishing green that complimented his chestnut hair well. "Who are you?"

"Me?" He smiled charmingly, "I'm Stephen." He offered his arm. Christine started to shake her head, but caught the slightest warning in his eyes. Figuring he was trying to keep her from attempting to bolt, she threaded her arm through his quietly, and tried to look like she wasn't on the verge of tears.

They left the tent, stepping into the last rays of the setting sun, and Christine gazed around quietly as they went. The carnival was of the traveling variety; she could tell by the dozens of wagons off to the side waiting to be reloaded. Scattered all around were some tents like the one she'd come from, and some cages that were without tents. Gazing within the cages, Christine felt her face pale with each step.

A pair of Oriental women smiled and waved at her; they each had a torso and a head, but from the waist down they were fused into one.

A man who was easily over seven feet tall sat in his cage, playing with a tattered stuffed bear, his eyes sad and his face devoid of hope.

A pig with two heads oinked at her as she passed, both heads seeming quite content to roll around in the mud at the bottom of the cage.

When she saw what appeared to be a man with no skin lying helplessly on the bottom of his cage, Christine gave a sob, pressing her face to her free hand as she tried hard not to let her nausea get the better of her.

"They were all born like this, you know." Stephen commented as he walked her toward a large tent in the middle of the horrid place. The young woman kept her eyes on the ground now, trying to avoid seeing any more of the poor people and animals locked in cages like they weren't worthy of being free. "They were all born…abnormal. How did you end up married to one of these creatures?"

"How did you end up kidnapping and caging them?" Christine shot back venomously.

Startled that the kitten had claws, Stephen chuckled, "Family business, _Mademoiselle_."

"Christine." The brunette woman whispered, her eyes sad as she kept walking alongside him. All of these people…persecuted simply because of an accident of birth. It was cruel.

"The man, who appears to have no skin?" Came the sudden comment, "He does. It's just completely clear. Strange, isn't it? Would you want to walk by something like that on the street? He would never lead a normal life on his own; so we keep him here where he's fed and kept warm."

"And ridiculed and laughed at and spit upon and screamed at."

"He's rather used to it, by now. He's fairly good at eliciting screams."

"He looks _sad_."

"He _is_ in a cage." Stephen reminded absently, pausing for a moment, "Here we are, Christine. Erik is within." And with that he tugged the flap to the side, led her to the cage, and opened to door to push her within.

Christine didn't care that the door was being locked behind her. All that mattered in that moment was seeing that Erik was not only alive and well…he looked completely relaxed and sure of himself, as well.

With a cry of relief, Christine flew to him, and was crushed against his chest in a desperate embrace. "My darling," Erik cooed, trying to soothe her – he could tell she was on the brink of tears, and he didn't want her so frightened…she would have to spend all day without him, he didn't want her vulnerable. "My dearest. Did they harm you in any way?"

"N-no. No. They...all they did was frighten me a little. That's it." Christine promised, pressing her face to Erik's neck and breathing his familiar scent with a low groan of relief. She was safe with him; he would never let someone harm her. Her swiftly rising panic slowly began to recede in his tight embrace, and they stood frozen like that for several minutes before Erik slid down the bars and cradled the girl in his lap.

"You and I both seem to have come out of this unscathed…" He frowned, "Stephen – the man who brought you, I assume he introduced himself? – said he found out about me…us…through a contact in the Populaire. Any ideas as to whom that mantle falls?"

"No, Erik, I really can't." Christine couldn't believe someone could have been keeping such a close tabs on them without Erik noticing. He was so observant; it seemed inane that he'd been completely fooled in this instance.

"You're tired, my dearest, aren't you?" Erik cooed, stroking her hair as suddenly Christine began to feel quite tired.

"Stop it." She demanded softly, squirming.

"Stop what?"

"You're trying to make me go to sleep. I don't want to. I want to stay awake with you."

"I'd rather like a nap as well. I want you safe and asleep when I doze."

"You are a liar." Christine accused, and edged up a bit, whispering into his ear, "I can help us escape…"

"Oh?" Erik inquired rather curiously, gently running his fingers down her cheek.

"Yes. I can earn their trust, convince them that I'd be good for cleaning or ticket selling or something silly like that…and then I can run. Then I'll be gone and they won't be able to use me to keep you here."

"My darling." Erik sighed, "Where would you go? They know where we live."

"Then what do you suggest we do, Erik, just stay here forever?" Christine demanded, voice shaking.

"Of course not. But we must proceed slowly. I cannot have you trying to run, _but_."

But?

Did that mean she really could be helpful in some way? Eager to hear of her duty, Christine stared up at him expectantly.

"Your first idea is good. Convince them that you can be let out during the day for chores to…help out." He smiled, "And make friends with the other _Phénomènes_ of this place." Erik ran his fingers over her cheek again, "You, I expect, really _will_ make friends with them – you're such a friendly thing and you don't care about looks. Then, we will incite them to riot. To fight back. If we can destroy this ridiculous carnival entirely…then we will be safe. Do you understand?"

"I do…but where will they go, Erik?"

He smiled slowly, "My home beneath the opera house isn't the only world beneath Paris. There are miles and miles of old sewers that aren't used any more…where colonies could be built. They can live out their lives in peace." Relief flooded Christine, remembering the dejected looks in the eyes of the creatures she'd seen. "Of course…only those who can speak and hear and comprehend will be of use. The animals can either be kept as pets or perhaps released into a forest. If nothing else…we can put the poor creatures out of their misery."

Christine shuddered at the idea of having to kill animals simply because they were born with an extra leg. At least, she rationalized, they could try to eat the meat of any animal they had to kill. That would be fair.

"You're tired, my love." Erik whispered, seeing her eyes drooping as she lay in his arms. At first he thought he'd finally gotten her to doze, but suddenly she peered into his face, her wide eyes earnest.

"You've been a prisoner in one of these before, haven't you?" Christine inquired timidly, watching her husband's face closely.

"Yes." He responded slowly, leaning to kiss her cheek gently.

"Tell me about it?" Christine offered softly, resting her cheek against his chest. Erik laughed a little, "What?"

"You make it seem like a bedtime story." Erik explained with a chuckle, shaking his head as he stroked her hair. "Alright, my dear. I'll tell you a little."

"Alright." Christine agreed quietly.

Erik hesitated for a long moment, gathering his thoughts, and began to explain. As a child he'd been out, wandering the streets after his mother had essentially abandoned him, and a smelly old man had happened upon him. That man happened to run a local freakshow.

The child was instantly kidnapped. Called the living corpse, put on display for all to see and whipped when he misbehaved in any way. This made Erik both as unstable and as strong as he had come to be. His threshold for pain was one of the few good things that came from almost daily whippings.

The boy made the old man thousands upon thousands of francs for years upon years. Eventually, the boy – who was by now a young man – snapped. He caught the whip being used on him, and used it to strangle the old man. Then he'd left, found his way into the opera house – where he'd met Madam Giry – and had created his own little world beneath where he began to use his prodigal musical genius to his advantage, practically running the opera.

Thus the Phantom was born.

Apparently he hadn't finished the job – he'd selfishly only freed himself, and had left behind the wealthy family to carry on the business. It was only a matter of time before he was found.

Erik finished his abridged version of The Phantom: A History, glancing down at his angel. She was still awake, but struggling to remain that way, and once he kissed her forehead and told her it was okay to sleep…she was fast asleep in minutes.

The young man holding the angel in his lap didn't sleep much that night, dozing lightly, and when morning came he reluctantly woke Christine and had her ready to go when Stephen appeared.

Christine was reluctant to leave, and glanced at Erik was tears filled her eyes, "Do I have to leave? Why can't I stay here?"

"I wouldn't want to subject a delicate young lady such as yourself to what might occur while your …husband…performs." Stephen explained with a chuckle, reaching to grab her arm and yank.

Still distressed, Christine nodded and smiled weakly at Erik as she was led away. Back through all the cages, back through all the horrors. Back to her own little cage, all alone, with no more Erik.

"Stephen…" Christine whispered as she walked quietly into her cage and turned to watch him close and lock the door.

"Yes, Christine?"

"Do you suppose I might be able to help out around here?" She held up a hand, "I wouldn't try to run. I would never abandon Erik here." Christine pretended to be too stupid to realize that her not being there would be the one thing that would help Erik free himself, "And honestly I'm going to go mad with boredom just sitting in cages all day when I'm capable of doing something useful."

Stephen frowned at her suspiciously, but was met with the perfectly innocent face of a superb opera actress. A long moment passed before he smiled, "I'll see what the workers made need help with."

"Thank you." Christine pretended that he'd just saved her from hours of boredom, her eyes lighting up with a sweetly innocent happiness. It was just something to do. She was, after all, just a girl! Whatever could she be planning?

Stephen bought it hook, line, and sinker. He never suspected that a pair of opera singers, one being a half corpse and the other a doe-eyed little girl, might be smarter than he – a brilliant and wealthy businessman.

* * *

(**Note: Stephen is named in honour of Stephen Price – a member of the Ensemble and a Piangi Understudy in the Las Vegas 2007 PotO cast list. The little guys need a little shout-out, too. D **) 


	18. Ribbons and Roses

**My Faithful Reader;**

**Yeah. I know. I can't believe me either. I'm in college now…and that's not an excuse but I like to pretend it is. I'm so horrible at updating, I feel awful. I think I'll have to wind the stories down soon simply because I can't keep updating much, that's unfair, you all deserve better so I shouldn't continue like I have been. However, for now there's still more.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**DoN

* * *

**

_Maitre_

_Chapter Eighteen_

_Ribbons and Roses

* * *

_

Running…always running…why were they always running? Why couldn't she relax and just be happy? No…always running. She felt as though she were running with weights strapped to her ankles and wrists, moving ever so slowly and with painful miniscule movements. She couldn't breathe…couldn't cry out…couldn't even cry…it was a crushing weight, strangling.

"Christine," A smoothly veneered voice broke through her panic, waking her suddenly. The girl's hands jerked up, fingers spasming as she shook the tingling numbness from them and turned her face toward the voice. "I've found that we've a distinct lack of people assigned to feed our exhibits," Stephen had smoothly stepped around the chance of angering her by referring to the creatures by a degrading term, using something a bit more tame, "Since you've so kindly offered your services I thought I'd offer you the opportunity."

Perfect. Christine perked up instantly; this was the opportunity she'd been waiting for over the last few days. She and Erik had discussed it at length – she was to discern the ringleader of the other prisoners, gain his or her trust, and through the leader free the others. She hadn't been sure there _would_ be a ringleader but he'd assured her that in a group such as this they would naturally turn to the perceived strongest for guidance.

"Oh, yes, I would love to." Christine responded instantly, sitting up and smoothing her hair as she tried to shake off the paralysis of REM sleep and fear, taking a deep breath. "What would it entail?"

"Well, we have cooks to prepare their meals – you will simply be delivering them." Stephen explained softly, and Christine heard a rustle of cloth as he shrugged.

"Why is it so dark in here?" She inquired suddenly, almost insulted by it, "What do you think I'm going to do if I can see?"

"I figured it would be easier for you to nap in the dark." Stephen responded, voice saccharine, obviously covering up the truth of the matter – which was that he didn't want her getting any ideas about escape, wanted her helpless and afraid and alone in the dark; compliant to every command. The similarities between this man and Phantom were unnerving.

"Oh, well that's very sweet of you." Christine wondered if she'd really ever been this blithely and stupendously innocent before – had she honestly accepted statements like this with no argument before? She was just too good at this not to have done it before.

"Of course, my dear," Stephen purred before the screeching of the opening door filled Christine's ears, and a hand touched the back of hers, "Let me help you up, mademoiselle."

She knew he was keeping her close to prevent an attempt to bolt – assuming that the week she'd spent imprisoned had begun to take a toll on her devotion to Erik. "Oh, thank you." She let him help her up, amazed by how he could be such a gentleman – under a different circumstance she may even have been fond of him, might have batted her pretty lashes and tossed her hair coyly, flirted with him and his dangerous smile.

Not now; she knew that under that polished exterior and the gentle touch and voice he was a cold-hearted monster – a man who used the misfortune of others for gain, a man enchanted by the siren song of money.

"Am I to begin now?"

"But of course."

"Will I be performing my duties unaccompanied?" Christine inquired softly, greatly interested to see if he'd be letting her out of arm's length.

"Not exactly," Stephen responded swiftly as he led her from the tent and into the light, giving her a few moments to blink and adjust her gaze – another good reason to keep her in the dark, if she did try to run she'd be momentarily blinded – before continuing to lead her. "You'll be accompanied by a guard, for your own protection of course," Of course, right.

"Oh, that makes sense. How nice of you," Christine gushed, "You're very thoughtful." He was drinking it up - anyone enjoys having their ego stroked, and Stephen seemed to be right up there with all the other captors who let their captive lull them into a false sense of certainty.

"Come now, I'll explain how we feed them."

* * *

Christine paused, glancing up from the tray she held to peek back at the guard behind her. He was a nice enough man – never seemed to smile enough, but he honestly seemed to think he was there to protect her from some sort of lashing out of those kept imprisoned, so Christine actually rather liked to have him at her back. He kept his distance, but had stepped in a time or two to settle rowdy prisoners, and she appreciated the extra safety net. Some of these creatures were actually quite frightening.

It had taken her several days to discover to whom the others looked – she found the tall man with the sad face seemed to like her and was easy enough to coerce into giving her information with a few extra treats with his meal. He'd explained that the skinless man was the one with the power of persuasion over all the others, and Christine had taken his words to heart.

She'd been bringing the skinless man special meals for two days now, but he hadn't so much as touched his plates. She'd offered him soup, bread, pasta, meat, but nothing seemed to draw his attention from staring at the ceiling of his cage. Sometimes she wondered if the claim that he was the leader had been a farce, a whimsical tale meant to distract her from the truth – but once or twice when Stephen had escorted her to Erik's cage she'd seen the man actually sitting up and speaking to a nearby prisoner. He'd stopped the moment he'd seen them, pretending to have just altered his sulking pattern, but it had done wonders to boost Christine's morale.

Now she stood holding another tray – soup, pasta, vegetables, _and_ meat…maybe he'd eat something from it. If he didn't; she had a secret weapon. A key she'd borrowed from Stephen after spending quite some time convincing him that if the skinless man didn't eat he would waste away and would no longer be making him money. So she'd gotten permission to enter the man's cage and try to coerce him to eat.

"Hi there," Christine offered as she approached the skinless man, "What's your name?"

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, very obviously not interested in speaking to her. Christine wasn't surprised – she was a 'normal' human and in his opinion no better than the others. How could he know she was a prisoner as well? Even if she was, she wasn't constantly on display like him.

Seeing that she wasn't going to get a reply without something big, Christine withdrew the key and approached the door. Her guard, Cimber, drew a sharp breath, "Whoa – what are you doing, Miss Christine?" He demanded immediately.

"I'm going to have a conversation with the man." She saw his eyes flicker to her as she called him a man, and then flicker away again.

"He's dangerous, Miss Christine, I'd rather you didn't." Cimber responded firmly.

Just a firmly, Christine waved the hand holding the key, "Don't concern yourself with it; I'll handle him." She unlocked the cage door and slipped inside, returning the key to her pocket and closing the door. Cimber was obviously unhappy, but kept his distance as usual, watching with absolutely rapt attention.

Christine approached the man lying on the bottom of the cage and knelt beside him, "Hello." She offered gently, "My name is Christine Mansart. My husband is the _Cadavre_." Her tone was soft, explaining hurriedly.

"I don't care. Out." The man responded icily.

Startled by that response, Christine shook her head, "I'm here to help you and everyone else escape this terrible place."

"Maybe we like it." The man responded viciously, "Maybe we like it here, get _out_."

Christine grew instantly frustrated and reached out, grabbing the man's arm, "I'm trying to _help_!"

Suddenly there were two hands at her throat, all ten fingers squeezing as she was slammed to the ground. The skinless man was astonishingly strong, his grip powerful and crushing as he straddled her stomach, transparent lips drawing back in a snarl, baring his teeth at her.

She heard Cimber's curse and instantly cried out, voice strangled, "Don't interfere, I'm fine."

Surprise glinted in the skinless man's eyes, he frowned down at her, trying to comprehend this new situation. He had her pinned, he was straddling her with his seemingly skinless, nude, body…and she'd just warned her guard off?

"What's your game, lass?" He breathed, the first indication of his lineage being European but not French. The soft Scottish brogue caught Christine's interest and she slowly opened her eyes, glancing up at him, "Why're you doing this? I doona understan'."

She knew suddenly. Somehow, she'd won the battle, she'd earned respect and he was letting his guard down enough to let her hear his soothing accent. She'd always found those accents fascinating, and the skinless man had even more of her great interest. "I want to help you. Erik, the _Cadavre_ wants to help you. He wants all of us to escape this horrible place, to destroy it so it can never return for us."

The man peered down at her with great interest, his fingers releasing her throat, "Ah, well lass…I'm no' sure what you expec' from me." He admitted, now touching her throat with fluttering brushes of fingertips, as if trying to apologize for harming her.

"You need to rally the others. Let them know that when Erik gives the signal, you're all to rally and fight." Christine explained gently.

"Rally…and figh'…this is a new one for me, we're used ta jus' takin' what we're given, y'know?" The skinless man rocked back now, removing himself from Christine's stomach and sitting her up, smoothing her dress and apron, "I think this sounds s'much more fun." A sudden grin spread over his face – a wild, joyous grin.

Christine was thoroughly relieved to see that reckless expression and grinned as he reached for a hunk of bread and took a bite, chewing open-mouthed like an undisciplined child, "So you're with us?"

"Aye, lass, 'course." He responded instantly around his bread, nodding wholeheartedly. "You give the sign, we'll be wai'in' and ready."

"Thank you." Christine breathed. To think; all it had taken was a willingness to let him nearly strangle her. That had been a lucky break – Erik had gotten her over the natural fear of fingers at her throat, so she'd been able to stay calm and make Cimber stay away. That was all it had taken – pretending not to be thoroughly terrified of him. Imagine that.

"Aye." He bowed his head at her and continued to eat messily.

Christine took that as a dismissal and touched his head…it looked like she'd touched his skull actually, that sort of make her skin crawl… as she stood and left the cage, locking it behind her – not wanting to, but knowing Cimber would tell on her if she didn't. Slipping the key back into her apron pocket she turned back to her guard.

He was on her in a moment, tugging her chin up and glancing at her throat, seeming thoroughly concerned, "That was absolutely ridiculous, Miss Christine – please don't do that to me again!" Cimber withdrew from her again, frowning deeply.

Christine smoothed her curls and nodded, "I'm sorry, didn't mean to frighten you." She glanced back at the skinless man, whose name she'd forgotten to ask, and he saluted her with the bread. Smiling, she waved at him and turned away once more, "He's actually nice."

Cimber shook his head at her and glanced into the sky, "It's an hour or two before dark; but how about we just take you to your husband now?" He offered, "Just this once."

Knowing that it was likely Stephen had orchestrated this little treat as a reward for her work and obedience, Christine pretended to look around and speak in a hushed tone, "Really?"

"Of course." Cimber responded with a nod, "Don't tell anyone."

He chuckled and led her through the other cages, and those viewers who were still lingering for the time before dark, taking her into the tent proclaiming Erik's presence. He was growling at a group of people who were trying to get him to do more than pace – he refused to put on a show any time other than his scheduled show times, otherwise people were free to come watch him pace his cage.

"C'mon," One of the watchers whined, "Take of the damn mask, freak!"

Christine stiffened.

"Yeah," Another whined, "Do it!"

Erik looked frazzled, they'd probably been working at him for a while. He snarled at them again, and one of them pelted him with some pieces of popcorn.

Rage boiled in her belly.

Cimber stepped forward to open the door to Erik's cage and let Christine slip inside, but didn't interrupt the guests. He wasn't permitted to interfere unless they physically harmed one of the creatures.

"Take off the mask!" Another repeated, annoyed.

Not noticing his young wife's arrival, Erik let out a snarl of rage and yanked the mask off, throwing it away, casting it incidentally to Christine's feet as he roared, "Happy? _Leave_!"

The watchers squealed, pleased to have coerced the corpse into removing his mask. Glowering, Christine scooped the mask up and stepped forward, interrupting the laughing of the observers as they saw the completely normal girl strolling in the cage with the monster. Their laughter sputtered as they stared.

Erik whirled, eyes wild, and froze as he saw Christine approaching. She reached out and brushed her fingers over his ravaged half-face and smiled, leaning up and pressing her lips to his for a long breathless moment. Then she turned, feeling Erik's arms slide around her waist, "Leave."

Astonished, the group watched for a long moment in open-mouthed astonishment before finally turning and leaving silently. "That was dramatic." Erik purred, "Thank you my dear." He took his mask and replaced it gently, reaching out to touch his fingertips to her curls.

Christine grinned at him and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging tightly. "I spoke to the skinless man. He's Scottish."

"Really?" He inquired, sounding surprised, "Well I suppose there was really no way for us to know that ahead of time, eh?" He lifted his gaze to check the room, assuring himself that Cimber had exited during Christine's display of affection. "So he's going to help us?"

"Oh yes. He thinks it…sounds…fun." She explained slowly, "He wasn't really fond of me at first."

"Really?" Erik inquired as he led her to sit on the pile of cloth he'd amassed somehow – he hadn't explained how – settling her and then perching beside her. "How so?"

"He sort of tried to hurt me at first." She saw no reason to hide it from him, he'd probably see the ghosts of bruises on her throat – the man's grip hadn't really even been rough enough to suffocate or even hurt too much, but she bruised like a little peach.

"What?" Erik demanded, bristling instantly as he reached out to touch her shoulder, and drew his own gaze to the area in question – still red, not bruised yet. He swore, touching her throat with his fingertips.

"He didn't," Christine reassured him instantly, "He started to but when I told Cimber to back away he seemed to change his mind about wanting to hurt me."

"Ah." Erik's anger was assuaged by her gentle words and he calmed down, stroking her hair with a sigh, "I'm so sorry you're involved in this, darling." He sighed, "You should be lavished with attention and gifts, treated like a princess, not wearing the same dress day after day in an apron and serving others."

Christine blushed shyly at his comment, "Well as nice as that sounds…I really don't mind." She smiled up at him, "You deserve a normal life, not a life hunted because of your face."

"I suppose we both deserve more than we've been getting." Erik agreed softly, touching her hair again, seeming almost enchanted by the chocolate curls, the rage on his face gone in favour of a soothed smile. "You're so lovely, _mon ami_."

She grinned and shifted to settle her cheek to his chest, "Thank you…you're lovely too."

A bark of laughter escaped Erik, a hoarse chuckle as he practically smothered her against him, stroking her hair again and shaking his head, "You're such a sweet girl, you know that? You're my shining light here."

Sometimes his lack of eloquence made his words all the more elegant. Christine's eyes drifted shut as she listened to him breathe, relaxed, "I love you."

"I love you too," Erik whispered, "Adore you, in fact. Enamored of you." He continued to stroke her hair, rubbing his fingers over the back of her neck soothingly. Christine's lashes fluttered with a long sigh, "Feels good?"

"Yes." She responded immediately, wanting him to continue with the single-handed massage. It felt amazing; she was extremely fond of massages and he simply didn't deliver them nearly often enough.

He laughed as he caught on and shifted to sit behind her, working his powerful fingers over her shoulders and down her spine, enticing soft sighs from her as he unknotted the tenseness she'd been fighting with for some time now.

"You've been frightened." He whispered softly, sounding angry, "You're so tense."

"It's fine," Christine responded instantly, "You're not at fault; it's just stressful to play the innocent captive victim, honestly."

"Is it?" Erik inquired questioningly, "How so?"

"I am constantly having to bat my lashes, stifle my questions in favour of dumb inquiries, and simply continuously act like an innocent child." Christine complained.

"You can act more innocent?" Erik wondered curiously.

She perked up, eager to play, turning to him as she fluttered her lashes as drew one fist to her mouth, nibbling on her thumbnail dramatically and peering up at him sweetly, "Mmmm, I'm really not sure, what do _you_ think?"

Laughter roared from his chest as he stood and reached out, sweeping her into his arms and crushing her to him, pressing his lips bruisingly to her own, "You're just so precious."

These little sessions did so much to keep him calm – Christine came, joked and played for hours, kissed and hugged, and kept his anxiety from devouring him. Kept him from going out of his mind.

Christine grinned at him, "Precious? Or precocious?" She winked and shifted to nip his lower lip before pulling away.

A shiver of pleasure raced down Erik's spine – he loved her little playful attempts at being affectionate, something he'd never expected to enjoy in his lifetime. True affection…it was so hard to brood when a beautiful girl was in one's lap nipping at one's lower lip. "Hmmm," He shifted to smooth her hair absently, "Mmm – I suppose a little of both, my dear."

Christine grinned and shifted to press her face to his chest with a sigh, "I hate it when I get tired when I've only been here for a little while – all I do anymore is _sleep_!"

He nodded, "Well stress does that, darling."

"I hate stress." The sulk in her voice brought a surprised laugh from him and Erik shook his head, touching her hair again – the texture was so soothing – then adjusted and kept her tucked against him.

"I know you do darling, but now you need to sleep." He whispered soothingly, "There's no shame in it. I'll watch over you."

"I don't want to sleep." Christine shifted and leaned to nip his lower lip again, then his ear.

"Darling, you need to stop that." Erik responded breathlessly.

"Why?" She inquired with a mischievous twinkle to her eye, kissing his cheek ever so sweetly, "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing you're going to hate." He teased back, running his fingers down her back.

"Want to prove it?" she teased, giggling as she shifted to adjust her position and straddle his lap, "C'mon."

He gazed up at her, and then glanced pointedly at the entrance, indicating that they could very easily have someone walk in on them. Christine snorted, "Let them see. I want my husband."

Who is a man to deny a lady? Erik kept his cloak over them, but certainly participated in his task as her husband.

* * *

"Wake up." Cimber's voice was at the door, "It's time for you to go on your rounds." His voice was gentle; he was trying to stir them as politely as possible. "Come on, Miss Christine, Stephen will be by for you himself soon."

"I'm coming, I'm coming." She mumbled against Erik's shoulder, "Shut up and give me a second." Taking her sweet time, she shifted slowly to her feet – glad now that Erik had insisted they both dress before going to sleep, making sure Erik's mask was in place as he liked it and his cloak was over his sleeping form, then she kissed his hair and left the cage with Cimber.

He was a nice man; she was wondering how on earth he'd managed to get himself stuck here and asked, "How did you end up here, Cimber?"

"How?" He clarified, glancing over at her.

"Yes, how, you seem like a nice man and you're holding other humans captive. How did you end up here?" Christine began to wonder if she could end up being friends with him, if she should ask him to help with the plan she and Erik had – and if she'd be able to get him to do this after her prying.

"Well…the pay is good." Cimber began slowly, gauging the reaction on her face, "And Stephen is my brother."

Nope. There would be no having him as a friend. He'd probably end up having to die too – at the rate that random family members seemed to come after Erik.

"Oh." Christine mumbled and picked up her apron, strapping it on, then snatched her tray and escaped to begin feeding the other prisoners.


	19. What do You Ask of Me?

_Maitre_

_Chapter Nineteen_

_What do You Ask of Me?_

* * *

**My Dearest Reader;**

**I got a review bemoaning my lack of love for Crime and Punishment… sorry, Dostoevski doesn't speak to me and quite honestly I spent most of the book praying it would end. Not my cup of tea.**

**But here's a little something that is.**

**Your Humble Servant,**

**DoN**

* * *

"There's news of a new acquisition." Came a soft voice. Christine looked up, surprised, nearly dropping the plate she was offering into the Skinless Man's cage. He hadn't spoken to her since their talk a week before, had ignored her every time she'd come over and only reacted to anything she'd said with a wriggle of his fingers.

"Is there?" Christine queried just as quietly as he, glancing over her shoulder to check Cimber's position. He was staring into space, twiddling a stick between his fingers. He was no longer worried about her interactions with the caged creatures, not after a week with no incident. "Why are you telling me?"

"She's a... 'mermaid,'" The man explained – Christine had yet to convince him to tell her his name. "Well, she has the body of a mermaid but no gills. They're trying to make her breathe underwater. She's hurt."

"What do you want me to do about it?" She inquired.

"_Help her_." He hissed, eyes narrowing for an instant before he rolled them with an expression of annoyance. "That's what you said you wanted to do, right?"

"Oh!" Christine squeaked. "Right. Where?" He pointed and she pushed the plate into his hands before whirling and darting off. She heard a sound of protest from behind her, followed by heavy footfalls as Cimber gave chase. "I'm not running away!" She tossed over her shoulder, seeing a large tent up ahead and assuming it was something in there.

She was right.

She slid inside the tent, hearing Cimber's footfalls slow, knowing he knew she wouldn't duck inside a tent if she were trying to run away. The sound of splashing distracted her from the chaser. She turned to face a huge tank full of water in the middle of the tent. The girl inside, a pretty thing with long brown hair that was a mess of curls, looked absolutely terrified. She was swimming back and forth furiously, water sloshing, clearly desperate for the square slab of glass atop her circular tank to be removed.

Christine stepped forward instantly and braced her shoulder under the slab, heaving as hard as she could. The girl began to whirl around in even more of a frenzy, the splashing sound increasing as she bashed her hands against the glass side of the tank as if trying to help or encourage. "I'm trying, stop that!" She snapped, very disturbed by the blood already misting in the water.

A pair of hands appeared around her, bracing against the glass lid as well and helping her push. With the pair of them it was much easier and the lid slid a little at first, and then all at once, hitting the ground with a resounding crash as a corner of it shattered off. Christine turned and gazed up at Cimber, astonished as she saw him frown at the tank, "She couldn't breathe." He commented softly.

"Yes," Christine agreed softly, "The Skinless Man told me. She's hurt. Come here, sweetheart." She reached out, coaxing the brunette closer, "I'm on your side. Let me see your hands." The girl seemed willing to respond, eyes wide as she held her hands out, leaning over the side of the tank. Christine took her hands and examined them. They were the source of the concerning blood, several splits down the backs, palms, and knuckles. They looked terribly painful, reddened. Christine wondered how long she'd had maybe an inch or two of air to breathe. "You'll be okay." She soothed.

"Who are you?" The finned girl whispered.

"Christine," The land-bound brunette smiled at her, letting go of her hands and looking around for something soft to lay over the edge of the tank. Finding a blanket she tucked it over the edge and led the soaked girl to lean over it. "What's your name?"

"Shiin." She whispered, "Well...that's the only name I remember. I had another once." She looked miserable.

Christine took a step back, taking her in again. She wore the typical seashell bra of a mermaid, her tail was clearly scaled and finned, she had fins to match down the backs of her arms. Other than an obvious lack of any sort of gills, Christine could understand the mermaid mishap.

"Shiin." She whispered, "I'm going to find something to put in there for you to rest on, okay?"

"Okay." The girl laid her head down on her arms, closing pretty hazel eyes with a sound of exhaustion.

"I'm confused." Cimber murmured as he followed Christine. She left the tent, hunting for some sort of barrel or box to add to the tank.

"By what?"

"She can't breathe underwater? But she has all that...fish...stuff?" Cimber muttered.

"She's like...well, have you seen those betta fish?" Christine explained softly, "Those long-finned Siamese Fighting Fish, that have to be in their own tanks?"

"Oh, right, those are...well, certainly interesting. I've seen them here and there." Cimber agreed, helping her hoist a table that had been discarded in a corner, lying on its side.

"She's like one of them. She can't breathe underwater despite all of her fish-like attributes." Christine stumbled over a rock, cursing under her breath before continuing to hobble with the table, "She has to breathe air just like them. So we can't have them putting that lid on her again."

"Even if they did she'd have air – when we shoved it off a corner shattered. It's too expensive to replace." Cimber murmured, "I will, however, let Stephen know not to do that again."

Christine nodded as they entered the tent. After bashing the table against the ground to clear the dirt off of it, she and her guard hoisted it over the edge. Shiin helped them angle it to slide it in, keeping it against one of the far edges and sliding atop it. She sat with a long sigh, leaning against the blanketed wall with relief. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Christine reached out to pat the girl's curls, wondering if this was why people kept touching hers. They looked so soft and smooth... and they were so pretty. Maybe she'd be a bit more patient with strangers patting her head now.

"Just what's going on here?" Came a smooth voice that Christine was beginning to loathe, "Shattering my expensive glass lids and sticking my tables in water?"

Christine turned to eye Stephen, "You nearly killed your new acquisition."

"How so?"

"She doesn't breathe underwater you ingr--" Would the idiot persona she was cultivating know a term like ingrate? Or use it? "fool." She finished lamely, "She nearly drowned."

"Is that so?" Stephen's brows raised, "Well, I'm glad you were here to ... save my new exhibit." He purred, moving toward Christine who took a startled step back. He froze mid-step, seeming to realize the threat in his body language and removing it, moving back the step he'd claimed and bowing his head. "I'd have rathered you come to me, before something this extreme." His voice was a tad bit less sharp, although he was looking very pointedly at Cimber.

"She was panicked, and hurting herself." Cimber explained gently, dropping his gaze and ducking his head. A familiar gesture, Christine recognized it from some of the freshman dancers in the ballet – submission, fear of a more powerful dancer...or in this case, a more powerful spirit in general. Cimber was working for Stephen, doing the grunt work, while Stephen strolled around and intimidated people. Wonderful.

"And Cimber helped me and now she's all better and she won't die and I want to see Erik." Christine finished for him, voiced rushed, eyes narrow and brows knit.

"You what?" Stephen blinked, trying to sort through the jumble of syllables.

"I want Erik." Christine huffed, crossing her arms, "Please. I'm tired and I don't feel well and I want my husband."

Stephen slipped a golden watch from his pocket, checked it, and slipped it away again. "While it is dinnertime, it's still almost two hours until nightfall, my dear."

"I want Erik _now_!" She demanded peevishly, stamping her foot. She didn't know why she was suddenly so furious, or why she had the burning urge to be safely wrapped in Erik's arms. She only knew she was angry and frustrated and having mixed feelings about Cimber's loyalties. He'd probably be willing to switch sides for someone stronger than Stephen. He might even be willing to learn to stand on his own two feet if given an escape from Stephen's tyranny.

Stephen advanced on her and grabbed her shoulder, eyes narrow and a single brow quirked, "You keep up this attitude and I will not permit you to go to him at all this evening. Understand me?"

Christine flinched as he squeezed to make his point, a tiny sound escaping her as she found herself cowering, hunching down and crossing her arms over her stomach as his sudden closeness brought nausea burning the back of her throat. How strange, she was defending her stomach? She removed her hands and pressed her palms to his chest, trying to shove him away, "Stop, please." Her voice was shrill. She didn't feel so well... dizzy... she gave Stephen a courtesy gag before throwing up everything she'd eaten for dinner. To his great fortune... Stephen had Erik's reflexes and dodged it. Dammit.

"Cimber," Stephen muttered, "Our guest isn't feeling well. Tuck her into bed, I will alert her ...husband... to her current state." The way he said "husband" made Christine really, really want to deck him.

"No!" Christine demanded, "I don't want to go to bed, I want Er--" Okay, the need to stop mid-sentence and vomit was embarrassing, "I want Erik. Please." She tried to keep from ordering, but she was beginning to feel like a violin's E that was tightened to the limit. She'd snap any second. "I don't feel well and I want Erik."

"Did you eat something bad?" Cimber interjected softly, brows raised as he stepped forward and rested a hand on her back, "I thought you just had fruit for dinner...were you allergic at all?"

"No..." Christine breathed. "Please?" She gazed up at the younger of the two men, hoping he would side with her.

"I think she'd feel better with the _Cadavre_, Stephen. I'm sure she's only snappish because she doesn't feel well." He was interjecting on her behalf... Christine was surprised, relieved, confused, and frustrated. How could she help Erik kill Stephen, and not kill Cimber? He was obviously being bullied into what he was doing.

"No." Stephen snapped, reaching out and catching Christine's wrist, "Come with me."

What else could she do? She obeyed.

She'd expected him to take her back to her dark cage...instead he led her up another path, through a grove of trees, and into a very nice little house. "Come along," His voice was gentler as he tugged her inside, up a flight of stairs, and into the second room on the left. "Clean up." He pushed her inside and closed the door behind her. Christine found herself facing a bathtub, full of water that with a dipped pinky she identified as lukewarm. Filthy as she was... she'd take what she could get. So she slipped into the water and hurried to use the supplied shampoo and conditioner and soap...it was heavenly.

"I'll leave a change of clothes outside your door." Came a voice calling through the door.

"Thank you." Christine responded, voice flat as she finished rinsing her hair and slid from the bath, toweling herself off and cracking the door to drag the clothing in. It turned out to be a dress – pale pink, fairly thin and soft, a single-layered skirt and no corset. Tugging it over her head she smoothed her curls out of her face and stepped from the bathroom. Stephen was sitting in a chair down the hall and stood as she reappeared, catching her up by the wrist once more and – not listening to her attempts to convince him to let her go.

Despite her whining he dragged her into a room on the right, pushed her into the bed, and yanked a blanket over her prone form before she could get so frightened by the situation that she threw up again. He didn't seem to be trying to force himself on her...although he did crawl into the bed to sit beside her despite her sound of protest. "Sleep."

"I am not going to sleep in a bed with _you_!" Christine snapped, finally losing her temper. She was so, so, _so_ tired of being _pushed around_ and if he kept it up she was going to _hurt him_. "I am going to get up and I am going to go to Erik. I don't know what you expect from me but if it's anything involving you and I in the same bed together --"

"I expect for you to lay down and go to sleep before you get even more ill than you are." Stephen's voice was harsh and he shoved hard against her chest to force her back to the pillow. "Sleep. I am not going to ... force myself on you. But you've proven yourself to be a damn good presence among the creatures – they all adore you – and therefore I don't want you sick. You've been sleeping on a cold, damp ground and you need a warm, dry bed. So you're going to stay right here, and you're going to sleep. I will leave if that will comfort you."

"No." Christine snarled from where she lay, shoving against his hand, "I want--"

"This is not up for debate." Just like that he stood, and left the room, closing the door behind him. A lock clicked.

She sat for a long moment, staring, jaw working as she tried to argue with the man who had already made his decision and left. A lesser girl might have cried, or sulked, or gone to sleep.

Christine was tired of being that lesser girl.

She got to her feet and yanked the sheets from the bed, finally getting to test a little trick she'd read about years ago and always wanted to try. She tied the sheets together, tied one end around one of the posts on the bed – how convenient that he'd given her posts – opened the window and tossed the sheets. Then she crawled out after them, sliding down to the ground.

The triumph that flooded her as she hit the ground, having crawled down a sheet-rope, was great for a moment before it made her throw up – which was getting really, really old. Gazing up her rope for a second, trying to decide whether or not this was a good idea, she took off running.

Erik was pacing when she arrived, it had fallen dark outside and he was looking very stressed. Looking up as he saw her relief flooded his face, "What's wrong, Christine? Why are you late?"

"Stephen wasn't going to let me come. He wanted me to sleep in a bed in his house." Christine reached through the bars, having no key to get in, and Erik took her hands.

"He was going to force you to stay?"

"Yes." Christine whispered, "He wanted me to sleep in a bed, because I don't feel well."

"You don't feel well?" He pressed gently, "So he was going to keep you away from me?"

"I think he wanted me to ... recover under his care. So I would feel more charitable toward him." She bit her lower lip and tilted her head at him questioningly, waiting for approval of her theory.

"I agree." Erik murmured, nodding slowly as he stroked her hands, "It's up to you, Christine. Do you want to go back...or do you want us to...give the word?"

"Me?" Christine gasped, horrified by the very thought of it. _She_ had to decide their fate? What if they got hurt? Killed?

Erik smiled and stroked her cheek, "Go back, Christine. Rest. Sleep in a bed tonight." He tugged her close and pressed her lips to his, closing his eyes. "Go." He stepped back and waved his hands, "Rest, get better. I won't put that decision on your shoulders, okay _mon ami_?"

"Right." Christine murmured and nodded, whirling to run back.

The climb back up sucked a _lot_ more than the climb down, but she made it, even closed the window and untied the blankets, remaking the bed before exhaustion finally made her collapse to the mattress. Her stomach had finally stopped roiling... thank God.

**000**

"How are you feeling?" Christine was woken by the nauseatingly familiar voice of Stephen, groaning as she rolled onto her side.

"Nauseas." She mumbled, refusing to sit up just yet. Her stomach was screaming at her again...and her throat was burning...and she was all shaky. Ugh...and her mouth tasted all gross, too. "I want Erik. Please?"

"No." Stephen shook his head, "You look terrible, I don't want you wandering around in this state."

"I don't want to be here with you when I don't feel well."

"I still didn't give you a choice." He responded firmly, "If it will stop your complaining once I see you drink some tea and eat some soup and get some colour back, I will take you to the _Cadavre_ and you may stay with him for the day. Is that fair?"

He was trying to pretend it was only about making her feel better.

Christine would take what she could get – it meant she got her way.

A cup of peppermint tea and a bowl of chicken and noodle soup later...and Christine was feeling unsettled but better. Stephen, however, was looking very uncomfortable...but he led her to Erik as promised and let her into his cage, closing the tent down for the day once he'd extracted a promise from Christine that she would return to his house that night.

Just like that they were alone again.

"You're still pale." Erik commented as he approached and drew Christine into the warm circle of his arms, his hand making soothing motions down her back. "Come, sit. Have you eaten?"

"I had some tea and soup." The brunette mumbled, "Made a new friend yesterday."

"Did you?" Erik inquired as he sat her down and tucked himself next to her, wrapping them both in his cloak.

"Uh-huh. The Skinless Man sent me to her. He said she was hurt and when I got there she was – she looks just like a mermaid but she breathes air--"

"Like those curious import fish from Thailand?" Erik suggested, "The ... fighting fish?"

"Exactly!" Christine practically glowed. Damned if they didn't have the perfect fit insofar as their mental workings. "And they'd tried to make her just swim underwater so I got there and Cimber and I pushed the lid off so she could breathe. Her name is Shiin, she's very pretty."

"Cimber? The man who trails you?"

Christine nodded, suddenly very earnest, "He's a good man, Erik. He's only here because Stephen is his big brother, and he is...well, not strong enough to fight him." Erik nodded and Christine continued tremulously, "I've been thinking."

"What about?"

"This place. What if...and this is just speculation... what if we remove Stephen from power, and put Cimber into his place. And work with him to change this place from the way it is into...something...better. Something closer to a sanctuary. Where people who would never really be happy being scorned on the streets by ignorant fools have the ability to come and be safe? Where they're protected? I mean they would have to still be...on display...since they'd have to have money... but they wouldn't be treated like animals – it could be more like, say, a job?"

Erik was nodding slowly, "You know, my dear, that's not a poor idea. Someplace where these people have the option to stay or go...where they can choose to be seen or spend the day out having fun in town...where they are not caged but are still given a safe haven of protection. You might be on to something. But would Cimber be up to something like that?"

"I think...if he were given control of something like this he would rise to the occasion. He's just never had the ability to really spread his wings, it seems. He appears to be an exceptionally bright and kind man; I would like to see what he can do... I don't want us to have to kill him." Christine smiled sadly, "I don't want to kill Stephen, either."

"He has to die. He would never hand this place over, Christine."

"I know." She sighed and turned to rest her head against his chest, rubbing her belly absently. She really wished her stomach would settle.

"Would you rather the baby be a boy, or a girl?"

He scattered Christine's wits so suddenly and so far that it took the poor girl just shy of a full minute to recover enough to stammer an inquiry as to what the hell he was talking about. "You're pregnant, Christine, I recognize the symptoms."

"But we-- we only --" Twice, so far...but she'd thought she couldn't get pregnant the first time? But she wouldn't be exhibiting symptoms this soon if the most recent time was the culprit. But how could she even be sure Erik was right?

Even as she doubted him, Christine knew he was right. He always seemed to have some sort of sixth sense about him, and she flat-out believed his words were true. Besides, something deep inside of her fluttered with the knowledge that he was, in fact, completely correct in his assumption. Woman's intuition... it had needed a little help to jump-start but now she was certain of the situation.

"I'm pregnant." She whispered, tasting the words, enchanted by them. With Erik's child!

Wait.

Erik waited for the dawning realization to spread over her face before he nodded slowly, "Yes, _ma cheri_. The likelihood that the baby will share my...curse... is far greater than I would like to calculate."

"There's a likelihood that it won't, too." Christine responded instantly, arms circling protectively around her stomach, "You aren't going to do something to ... to..."

"Kill the baby?" Erik laughed without humour, "No, my darling, why would you suspect me such a terrible thing? I will not harm our child. Especially not now, not since you are clearly already its mother. Already more of a mother to this infant than mine was to me... If my mother had been aware of my deformity prior to my birth she would likely have never allowed me to live that long. As it is, I'm astonished she let me live beyond my birth."

"I'm grateful for it every day." Christine whispered, shifting to press her lips to his, eyes dancing, "A baby. I'm going to have _your baby_." So much was explained... the sickness, the constant hunger, the exhaustion... "How long have we been here, Erik?"

"One month? Two? I'm not keeping track." He responded gently, "We must leave before the baby is born."

"Of course." Christine muttered, "I'd rather leave as soon as possible so the baby doesn't have to grow here at all, in my tummy or outside of it."

"Of course." Erik responded instantly, running his fingers through her hair. His long piano-player's fingers...amazing, delicate extensions of his musical prowess. Everything about this man – voice, body, hands, all made for the perfect musician. If only his face had been made the same way.

"Do you suppose," Christine whispered, "You'd be half the man you are if your face were completely normal?"

"Pardon?" Erik stiffened, pulling back from her. He always got uncomfortable when she started talking about his face – she supposed asking if his face was a blessing wasn't exactly a topic he found palatable.

"Your face. If you had a normal pretty face, with that amazing voice and those musical hands...do you suppose you'd be as wonderful as you are now?"

"Or do you suppose I'd be a foolish... _fop_ like that De Chagney character?" Erik supplied, seeming to honestly be mulling over her words, considering their merit and weighing their truth. "I suppose you're right." It sounded like it pained him to admit it, "If I were born with a pretty face I'd likely have grown up relying on it."

"I knew it!" Christine muttered, proud of herself, "So because you're imperfect...you're perfect. Your imperfections shaped who you are." She crawled to reclaim the small distance Erik had unwittingly put between them, sliding her arms around his waist and tucking her cheek against his. "I love you." She was surprised to feel something wet splash on her ear and pulled back from him, eyes widening as she glimpsed a glistening before Erik jerked his face away. "You're crying."

"I'm not." His petulant tone brought a giggle bubbling up and Christine had to work to keep it from breaking free.

"You are. Why are you crying?" She caught him up and turned his face back, pressing her palm to his wet cheek soothingly.

"You describe me as perfect." Erik chuckled, "Your kidnapper, your captor, your--"

"Husband whom I adore dearly. You ... ninny!" She pressed her lips to his as hard as she could, startling a sound that, had Erik been less manly, she may have described as a "squeak."

He whirled them as they kissed, resting her back to the bars and running one hand up the back of her neck to tangle his fingers in her hair. A gentle pressure, keeping her right where she was so he could kiss her senseless.

Christine sure didn't mind.

Once she'd been thoroughly disoriented Erik slid to his feet and smoothed his cloak, and then rubbed the back of one hand over his cheek. "We leave. Tonight – no, now." The dark-garbed man muttered, turning to the bars, considering them with that intelligent contemplative look he had just before he was going to do something impressive or frightening. Then he reached out, and bent one of the bars out to the side.

Glancing back at his little wife he held a hand out and coaxed her to him and out of the cage, "Find Cimber. Offer your idea. If it doesn't work..." Erik hesitated, and then muttered, "Coerce him here." Then he bent the bar back into place.

Amazed, Christine nodded timidly and hurried away from Erik's tent.

**000**

"What you're suggesting is utter _madness!" _Cimber snapped at the girl standing before him, pacing back and forth and wildly gesturing with no actual rhythm to the movements.

"I know." Christine admitted quietly, "But I feel … look, either you help or you die. Either way we are going to end this thing."

"And if I go to Stephen?" Cimber crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes.

"Would you?" Christine whispered, calling his bluff and stepping closer, her own eyes narrow.

Surprised by her sudden intensity Cimber froze, eying her face, realizing she was truly serious. "You really think I can run this place? You really think _I_ could make this a safe haven for all of these…people?"

"Yes." Christine responded instantly, gazing up at him, "Yes, I _truly_ do. I think you just need the chance to spread your wings. You seem like such an amazing person, Cimber, not a think like your brother. I want to believe we don't have to kill you."

"And if I don't agree you really will?"

"Erik is a little tired of the family-member-revenge subplots we seem to end up in constantly." Christine chuckled weakly and crossed her arms, "Make your choice."

**000**

"Give the word." Erik whispered. He rose from where he'd been sitting, watching Christine run from his tent toward the Skinless Man who moved faster than he'd ever seen someone move, vanishing from sight to the side of his cage not visible through the opening in his tent.

Christine returned a moment later, "He says they're on board with the idea. In fact he said something like _hell yes_."

"Fantastic." A few cracks later and Erik was through the bars, "This will not be a… dramatic moment, Christine, quite honestly I want you to go sit with the others and wait for me. I will take care of Stephen."

"Like hell I will." Christine slid her arm through his, "I have to make sure Stephen doesn't cheat. And if he does I need to be there to help you kill him."

"No—"

"I don't remember this being a debate." Christine interrupted sweetly, eying him defiantly. So defiantly that he started to laugh and finally just nodded, taking her with him.

"Keep quiet, keep out of the way. Back to a wall, so no one can sneak up on you at all. I am going to be killing him, Christine, I know you don't like that."

"He has to die." Christine parroted quietly, "I don't have to like it, but it's necessary. He'd never just step aside. With any luck he'd find some long-lost relative of every other enemy you've ever made and they'd come together to gang up on you."

Erik shuddered, "Urk; please don't talk like that." Shaking his head he kept walking with her, keeping them to the shadows, Christine directing until they got to Stephen's house. Erik was too damn good at breaking and entering – he found an open window to gently slide open and helped Christine in before sliding in himself. Then he closed the window and she directed him with tiny hand gestures up the hall and up the stairs.

That was where her expertise ended, she wasn't sure where Stephen lay asleep. Erik tried to think of a smart way to do this, and finally just started opening doors. They had four empty rooms, and a bathroom, and finally they stumbled on Stephen's room. He was up, sitting at his desk and writing by the light of a candle, so focused on his work that it took him a moment to look up.

When he did, he froze, brows knitting as he jerked to his feet, backing up a step to open a drawer and draw a pistol from the depths. "Just what do you think you're doing, _monsieur_?" He demanded sternly.

Christine nearly felt _chastised_. She felt Erik gently push her to the side, until almost all of her was behind the wall and she was just peeking in. "We're both gentlemen here, Stephen. You wouldn't use a weapon on an unarmed man, would you?"

"Yes, if that unarmed man is you, _monsieur_."

Damn. Well that fell through. "I don't wish to kill you."

"Yes you do. Just like my uncle, you intend to strangle me – I've noticed that's your calling card. Strangulation." Stephen was circling Erik, trying to choose his best positioning.

This man was too damn smart for his own good. "Yes. I know. That seems to be my skill. I suppose I'll have to demonstrate it."

"I suppose after I kill you…" Oh the epic mistake. Michael chuckled from inside of Erik, waiting patiently for Stephen to say something incredibly stupid that would anger them both enough that he could come out to play again. Brought a whole new meaning to the phrase 'laughing inside.' "I'll take that pretty wife of yours for my own; put her back on the Opera stage and make the rest of my fortune from her."

Christine choked from behind the wall, disgusted.

Michael was rather annoyed; Erik was keeping his cool far too well. "Is that so? And what of the child in her womb? Hard to be an opera singer when you're clearly pregnant."

Stephen's eyes widened and he shuddered violently, "Oh I shall have to dispose of _that_ just like I shall _you_. Can't risk another one of _you_ running about."

"Brother, don't talk like that." Another man walked by Christine where she watched wide-eyed from her wall, "Just let these people go. I'm taking over this place… you've made it just as terrible as our Uncle did."

"Terrible? I happen to think this place is perfection. It's one of the most famous traveling carnivals there is." Stephen hesitated, and then swore violently and continued, "You're bloody well with _them_ aren't you? You and your goddamn bleeding heart; they're just _animals_. Nothing like _those_ … _things_ out there can be human. They'll just be murderers and thieves left to themselves."

"Or you're the only animal here." Erik whispered, his voice trembling with barely restrained rage, Michael so close to the surface Christine swore she could feel the temperature dropping several degrees.

"I'm afraid my body count is so much less than _yours_, monsieur." Came the iced comment.

"You have your uncle to thank for my body count. If he hadn't snatched me off the street and turned me into a monster I never would have behaved like one. This is your last chance to give in quietly, Stephen. I like you, somehow. You're a smart man. You don't need to die."

"You do."

Several things happened at once. Stephen fired, Christine screamed, Cimber jerked, and Erik disappeared. There was a harsh crack as Erik seemed to just appear out of thin air behind Stephen, wrapping his arm around the man's throat and wrenching inward. Crushing his windpipe, not breaking his neck. "You selfish _son of a bitch_." Erik whispered. Michael grumbled from inside, frustrated over Erik's sudden complete control. "You don't deserve all the time it would take to strangle you. Christine will never be yours. Those people you've held captive for so many years will be free to come and go as they please. You will no longer be able to hurt anyone. At all. Ever. Suffer."

"Erik." A tiny voice interrupted his ranting, and Erik whirled, looking around Cimber to see Christine looked strangely white-faced.

"What's…"

There was a hole in the wall.

Erik swore in Latin, unable to think of the proper French word for how he was feeling. "No, no," Christine interrupted his fury, "I…I'm okay it's just a scratch…" She sounded faint, "But a lot of blood." She hit the ground before Erik or Cimber could catch her.

**000**

"So, how is it?" Came the soft demand, and Erik looked up from his work, looking contemplative. "Oh don't give me that look, c'mon, how is it?"

"Well, Cimber's purchase on a permanent lot for the carnival finally went through and they just moved in. The only complaint from those living there now is that their hours aren't long enough. You were right – they _like_ being performers, not prisoners. They know they'll never have…_normal_… lives, but they know they will always have a warm bed and a hot meal and they earn hourly wages for as long as they are working."

Christine laughed, leaning to press her lips to his cheek, "Wonderful. Oh!" She winced, pressing a hand to her belly, which had swollen insurmountably over the months.

"What? What is it?" Erik inquired, stiffening.

"Just…" She hesitated, weighing whether or not she should tell him. He'd been hovering over her like a terrified mother hen since she'd woken up a few hours after her faint. He had refused to even let her leave their home under the opera house after he'd gotten her back there, and her pregnancy had progressed with weekly visits from the Giry women. Now and then she was permitted up to watch rehearsals or performances, always from box five, and always with Erik fussing over her. "I've been having stomach pains all day."

"All day?" He gasped, "And I was off visiting that damn carnival! Here, here, lie down."

"Hurts more to lie down. I'd rather not." Christine responded firmly, and continued to pace slowly, shuffling. She felt so strange being so _big_ when she was used to being so _small_.

"Doctor!" Erik gasped. He vanished from the room before Christine could argue and she laughed, sitting down slowly and then standing again, trying to get some relief.

Her water broke before the doctor arrived. It was really quite the unexpected event, and she was actually not sure what was going on until the doctor arrived to explain it to her.

For a first labor, Christine got incredibly lucky. While she'd had pain all day, she didn't hit any true labor until her water broke. And when she hit hard labor it lasted for a grand total of two hours. "Wow," The doctor breathed. Last time he'd seen Christine she'd been half-dead with the flu, now she was giving birth and having an unfairly easy time of it. "It's almost time to push, Christine."

Erik was clutching her hand, stroking her hair, seeming completely unperturbed by the other man at her ladybits. Apparently his trust in the gentleman doctor had come around. He was too worried about Christine, wiping at her face with a cold cloth as she panted in between contractions. "They're coming so fast."

"Yes, I know." The doctor murmured, "Okay, Christine, you're going to feel like you need to push. When you get the urge to bear down, don't fight it. I want you to push while I count to ten and don't let up until I reach ten, okay?"

"Okay." She breathed.

"Ready…" The doctor waited, watching her stomach, waiting. He saw a tell-tale muscle vibration as her stomach clenched, and set his jaw, "Push. One… two…"

Christine cried out softly, holding her breath until she felt faint and then remembering to pant, trembling violently as she pushed as hard as she thought she could, and then pushed harder. She nearly crushed Erik's hand, but he didn't mind – didn't even wince – just continuing to stroke her hair and encourage her.

"One more, Christine, you're so close. One more." The doctor coached, snatching the receiving blanket from the side and readying it, "One more… here we go—one…"

Christine cried out again, eyes squeezed tightly, face red and nose wrinkled, tears sliding down her cheeks as she fairly shook with the effort she was putting into this. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.

For a moment there was silence. Christine's heart turned to ice in her chest. Why wasn't the baby crying? She struggled to sit upright, eyes blurry with tears, seeking the infant. "Right here, Christine, don't panic. The baby is right here." The doctor explained instantly, "it's okay. Erik don't let her get up, she isn't done yet."

"Wh-what…?" Christine was trying to speak through numb and tingly lips and found it was nearly impossible to articulate.

"It's a boy," Erik responded instantly, realizing the reason for her panic, "It's a boy. He's breathing. He's okay. He's…" He hesitated, "Well, he isn't perfect. But he's not as bad as I'd feared."

"What's…wrong?" Christine breathed, her imagination coming up with a variety of horrible disfigurements for the child.

"It's really not too bad." The doctor offered as he approached and laid the swaddled infant on Christine's chest. She gazed down at the child, frozen for a moment. Time stood still as mother met child, and waited to see what she would feel.

Love. That was it. There was no other way to describe meeting the person she'd carried inside her for just under nine months. He was warbling softly now, but not screaming yet, almost like he'd decided he'd rather take a nap before he wanted to fuss. He wriggled a little and then was still on her chest.

Tears choked her, as Christine gazed up at Erik, "He's so perfect."

Tears were visible on the unmasked side of his face. He knelt and brushed his fingers over the child's head. "He's an angel."

Christine bit back a sob, unable to believe she could really be holding Erik's son, "Thomas, our perfect angel..."

The doctor watched them both, astonished by their words. The child clearly was not perfect; his nose was not shaped properly and he had almost no chin… but his parents seemed blind to it. Briefly, he wondered what the other side of the Phantom's face looked like, that would cause them to find a child that was clearly not perfect…absolutely that.

The pair were so focused on the baby they hardly noticed as the afterbirth mess was taken care of, and when the doctor deigned Christine okay to be moved Erik swept her and the baby into his arms and carried her right to the bed, settling them tenderly, tears still on his face. "I love you." Christine whispered and Erik immediately echoed it, kissing her and then pressing his lips to the child's forehead.

"I'll take my leave now, Erik." The doctor murmured, touching Erik's shoulder in a brief manly moment of congratulations, before he turned and left, leaving the pair to their child.

And this is where our tale ends. Christine sitting in a bed where so many events have transpired, cradling an infant who couldn't be more perfect in her eyes, her husband kneeling beside the bed to smooth her hair back and gaze adoringly on the family he never thought he could, or would, have.

_Love me, that's all I ask of you…_

* * *

**Thank you, everyone who has followed this story despite the erratic updating schedule. I hadn't intended on this being the final installment, but it wrote itself for me and wound up being a seventeen-page finale. It's time for us to leave Erik and Christine to their baby boy; as hard as it's going to be for me to let go, these characters have grown up and it's time for me to let them fly and move on to new projects, not without tears shed – but when it's time, it's time.**

Your humble servant,

DoN

(Completed June 13, 2008 at 11:56pm)


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